


Keep Your Feet

by diemarysues



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Angst, Big Bang Challenge, Gen, Hobbit Big Bang 2014, Hobbits as Middle-Earth seals, M/M, Romance, Sea Monsters, Shapeshifting, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 18:16:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 53,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1697855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/pseuds/diemarysues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This is the help you’re offering us,” the Dwarf said flatly. “A fish.”</p><p>“Excuse me!” Bilbo exclaimed, extremely insulted. A <i>fish</i> – why he never been called something so insulting in all his life! “I am a Hobbit, and I’ll thank you to remember it!”</p><p> </p><p>Despite this rocky beginning and the trials to come, both Bilbo and Thorin will have to learn to work together to help regain the Dwarves’ home, lost years ago to a fearsome adversary known as the Dragon. But there is more to their enemy that meets the eye, and before the end of their quest they will learn that there are far more deadly things in the sea than sharks and pirates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First off the thank yous:
> 
> Thank you to suchanadorer for inspiring this fic in the first place, and to tawnyport for being as encouraging. Thanks to alkjira for dealing with my constant moaning. Thank you to nickygabriel and everyone else involved in the Hobbit Big Bang.
> 
> And many, many thanks to the artists who've put up with my procrastination and non-professionalism - Angeli, Kyra, and Panda. Thank you so much for choosing my fic.
> 
> And thank you, everyone who reads this. I hope you enjoy yourselves.
> 
>  
> 
>  **Art links:** [[pandamani](http://pandamani.tumblr.com/post/87029342769/the-final-fic-i-drew-for-for-the-hobbit-big-bang)] [[bofurthurmore](http://adambrown.co.vu/post/87013633016/for-thorin-senpais-big-bang-entry-keep-your)] [[thejerseydevile](http://jerseyartblog.tumblr.com/post/87303024123/hobbits-were-curious-creatures-perhaps-this-was)]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to._ \-- Bilbo Baggins

Hobbits were curious creatures.

 

Perhaps this was an unfair description, given the rich variety of life forms in Middle-Earth. Even so, of all Illuvatar’s creations, Hobbits were the only sentient beings (fish and whales aside) blessed with powerful flippers for swimming.

 

They were not the only aquatic life form – although it could be argued that Elves were amphibious, rather than aquatic, and only lived in freshwater – but their shy nature meant that very few believed in their existence at all. There were tales and legends as was wont to happen, but as these invariably claimed Hobbits were malevolent creatures bent on leading sailors to their doom, they could be ignored.

 

Hobbits could be anything from two to four feet in length, and consisted of large families living together in cave-like dwellings. If anything could be said of their kind, it was that they shared a love of living things – anyone privileged to look upon a Hobbit town would have their breath taken away by the sheer beauty of the carefully tended coral reef beds.

 

That being said, it was very unlikely for anyone to stumble upon a Hobbit’s home. They were not very accessible especially to those who lived on land, after all, given Hobbit propensity for grottos with submerged entrances. And as mentioned earlier, they were a secretive race and very happy to live their lives without interference from Big Folk. Most carried the opinion that land dwellers were Bad News – most.

 

The Hobbit of interest today was one called Bilbo Baggins, and unlike many of his kin he found land dwellers fascinating. He was quite unremarkable by standards of society, with honey brown curls and a strong tail only two shades darker. His nose was round, with a pattern of mottles across it, while his ears were as pointed as his neighbours’.

 

He lived alone, which was advantageous in that it helped mask any oddities he may have had, interest with Big Folk included. He was almost insatiably curious about the world above the surface, an aspect of his character that had been nurtured by his mother Belladonna who had been an adventurer in her own right before she’d married Bungo Baggins.

 

Bilbo himself had not had any major adventures since he’d been a child – the death of both parents had had a profound effect on how he conducted his life in the public eye. The other Hobbits had Expectations, especially of a Baggins, and he did his best to fulfil them.

 

That didn’t mean he couldn’t do as he liked in the privacy of his own home, though. Tiny adventures that no one knew about were perfectly fine, surely.

 

Right now, he was looking over… well, he didn’t know, really. The thing in his hands was tapered at one end, with a small, cup-shaped other end. It was the colour of sea foam, but Bilbo couldn’t begin to guess what it was made of or what it was for. Was it an eating implement? A weapon? A musical instrument?

 

Bilbo smiled before he set the mystery thing back in its place. Surface dwellers – and their tools – were intriguing.

 

He sighed, wiggling his ears absently. Sometimes he found himself wishing that he’d been born with two legs – as scandalous a thought as it was – living solely out in the sunlight with earth underneath his… what were they called? Toes?

 

Being able to stand on ‘feet’, he’d be able to interact with other land dwellers, live with them, be… be one of them. Instead he had flippers that, while excellent for swimming, meant he had to drag himself over sand and stone. Instead of being able to meet as many land dwellers as he wanted and be privy to the same knowledge they were, Bilbo had only one source of information (and it had been many years since he’d met the old man).

 

These were dangerous thoughts that plagued Bilbo, and they bothered him particularly on days he missed his parents enough that it was hard to breathe. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of being a Hobbit, or of his tail, or of his fur. These were integral parts of who he was. Only, sometimes he felt like he was meant for greater things than eating fishcake and avoiding unwanted relatives.

 

Sighing again, Bilbo shook his head to dispel such notions. He wasn’t a Hobbitling any more. He was careful to let the woven curtain fall over the entrance of his collection room. Luckily none of his visitors had been quite nosy enough to poke past it.

 

Or, at least, he never let the nosy ones out of his sight whenever they came over for tea. It helped that his grotto was large, with many nooks and crannies unknown to anyone else.

 

Bilbo chuckled before retrieving his bag, fitting it to his back so it’d be out of the way as he swam. He then fetched the coral swimming staff his father had carved for his mother, and slipped out the back entrance of Bag End.

 

* * *

 

The things land dwellers used to float on the water were fascinating. His mother had called them ‘ships’ and she had said that they were made of wood – which was to say that they were harvested from land plants.

 

Bilbo approached the ship, eyes wide with wonder as its shadowy silhouette sharpened into a huge shape. It didn’t look recently arrived – there were certainly no land dwellers about, and Bilbo knew quite well that they could not survive long underwater. Hobbits had lessons on that kind of thing.

 

Furthermore, there were barnacles and coral starting to set up shop on the ship. Bilbo peered at them, hands hovering in the water. Yes, they were doing quite well. Perhaps he’d return to this place to check on them. It’d be a passable cover for exploring the ship. Probably.

 

He swam upwards, towards the flat part of the ship. Colourful and plain fish darted about, wary of getting into his path, and Bilbo himself was wary of the presence of any predators. The sunlight cast shadows as dappled as he was, from nose to tail, but there was no point being needlessly careless… even if this outing would likely prove fascinating.

 

As he rose, he passed by a huge hole in the side of the ship, its edges jagged in a way he’d never seen before. Had this been the reason this ship was now in the sea, or was it some kind of design feature? He could see things beyond the hole (entrance?) despite the gloom within, but continued on upwards. He could explore there later; he’d almost reached the top –

 

Bilbo’s mouth dropped into a wide ‘o’. Wow. He’d never seen a ship with _three_ poles sticking from its body. There were tattered pieces of cloth attached to them, swaying in the current as if in a breeze. He wondered at their purpose (decoration?) and wondered what they would have looked like – what the whole ship would have looked like – when it had sailed above water instead of being sunk beneath it.

 

He’d never seen a ship as it was supposed to be naturally – as it was, he’d only ever seen about four or five in his lifetime.

 

Bilbo ran his free hand along the wood, marvelling at its smoothness so different to that of stone or coral. He supposed that it had been carved by land dwellers. It was a little unlikely that the wood plants had grown in such a shape.

 

…or maybe that was possible? He didn’t know. As with all Hobbits, most of Bilbo’s years were spent in the sea, only surfacing for air. They did venture onto the land for long months from in autumn for their annual dancing season, when eligible Hobbits would try to find and woo their spouses, but that was it. Well, except for the (unwisely) adventurous, a group which included Bilbo, but he would be first to admit he knew very little about the world of land dwellers.

 

For example, while he was aware that they moved on two legs, upright, he held the opinion that it seemed like a very inconvenient way of getting around, this ‘walking’. It clearly had its faults, given that they needed these ships to cross water.

 

Bilbo shook his head, dispelling his thoughts. Now wasn’t the time for comparing and contrasting Hobbits with land dwellers. Now was time for exploring and possibly adding to his collection of mystery surface objects.

 

Peering this way and that only gleaned the knowledge that this ship was damaged – either by the owners of the ship, or some kind of enemy, or some natural force. The wood was gouged in parts and split in others, even broken with gaping wounds similar to the one he’d seen on the ship’s side.

 

Amongst all this damage Bilbo found nothing interesting that would fit in his bag. There were heavy tubes placed at regular intervals on either side of the ship, made of some cold and foreign material, but they were hardly transportable.

 

He gave a disgruntled snort, expelling a stream of bubbles before flipping backwards through the water and over the side of the boat. He was luckily just the right size (being the healthy Hobbit he was, able to ward off the chill of the winter sea) to fit into the jagged hole and passed through it into the darkness. Bilbo’s hazel eyes adjusted quickly – and then grew as wide as oysters.

 

Beyond the fish inside the ship (that seemed to grow cautious in his presence) Bilbo could see row upon row of strangely shaped containers. He assumed they were containers as the ones nearest to him had no covers and were empty. They appeared to be made of the same wood as the ship. Nevertheless, these were still much too cumbersome for Bilbo to take back with him, even the empty ones. After all, water was heavy, even if he and most animals under the sea glided through it like… well like one of those strange ‘birds’ did through the air.

 

A glint of light caught Bilbo’s eye; he thought it was a fish at first, and wondered if he was hungry enough for a quick snack. But then he saw that the shining thing did not move at all, not even a tiny bit. Even fish bobbed about a little.

 

He made his way deeper into the belly of the ship, because that was where the thing was, curiosity very much reaching a peak. Whatever it was lay on the flat floor between two wood containers, and reflected light much in the same way as the surface of the water seemed to do sometimes, particularly when viewed from below.

 

When Bilbo was close enough to touch the thing, he put his face close, intending to inspect it. Catching sight of an eye within the surface made him rear back in alarm, however. Bilbo frowned mightily, fear and interest warring inside of him. He tried again, this time cautious, and then almost laughed – that was _his_ eye! Had he not thought of the thing as reflective?

 

He carefully picked the thing up; it was thin and flat, with gently ragged periphery as if broken then worn away by water, and perfectly reflected Bilbo’s face as he peered at it. It didn’t warp the image as water did; mesmerised, Bilbo’s other hand went to trace the edge.

 

Another stream of bubbles escaped him as he hissed; the edges hadn’t _looked_ sharp. His finger still stung a little. The cut was almost unnoticeable and a small tendril of red rose from his skin, dissolving between one blink and the next. Well. That was careless of him.

 

Bilbo’s ears twitched.

 

His hearing was not as good as that of other sea creatures (whales in particular) but even he could notice that the water around him seemed strangely quieter than it had only seconds before. It took him another moment or two to become aware of the fact that there seemed to be no fish inside the ship. Not one.

 

Oh no.

 

Bilbo shoved his found object into his bag in the same sinuous motion that had him facing the hole he'd swum through - and facing the shark that had just arrived. Given the habits of sharks, it had no doubt been aware of Bilbo's presence for some time, and had silently been observing him. The tiny amount of blood Bilbo had lost hadn't been the reason for the shark's being there but it did aggravate the situation somewhat.

 

Sharks could not talk, but it was all too easy to imagine a gloating speech dripping from that widely smirking mouth. White teeth like spiky shards of coral were plainly visible, even in the relative gloom. The shark itself was striped in much the same way as some of Bilbo's cousins, for the same effect of making it blend into the shadows and light streams in the water. Bilbo was sure that he could only see it so clearly because it was backlit by the brighter water outside the ship.

 

That and the lack of distance between them.

 

The sting of the wound on his finger had died away. Bilbo thought now of being ripped into, pierced and sliced. This shark was clearly not yet big enough to eat him whole but that only meant that it would take huge bites until Bilbo no longer had any life left in him; until all the water was red.

 

Bilbo set his jaw. He wouldn't let that happen.

 

It was paralytically frightening to be a Hobbit facing down a charging shark, but Bilbo wasn't motionless because of fear. He was scared, but his plan required him to be brave as the shark bore down on him.

 

When he caught one round, soulless eye, Bilbo moved. The coral staff struck the shark across its snout. Bilbo wasn't strong enough to have delivered a killing blow, but he was sure that he'd managed to stun the large fish. It was enough for him to be able to swim past rapidly without the shark snapping its head to the side and biting into his flesh.

 

Bilbo burst through the hole in the ship, tail working furiously. He held his arms out in front of him, keeping the staff parallel with his body so he could cut through the water more easily. Sometimes there were sharks that could swim as quickly as a Hobbit, so he needed all the advantages that he could get.

 

There was no way to know if the shark was following him; it was hard to hear anything above the rush of water past his ears. Turning or even glancing back was dangerous, equal to assuring his death, so Bilbo kept his eyes fixed ahead. Fish rushed away from him – or more likely from his pursuer – far enough that he couldn’t see them even in such clear water.

 

However, Bilbo did catch sight of something that made his hopes rise. The seabed was rising at a gradual gradient. Slanting beams of sunlight cut through the blue water, sending rippling rays of colour dancing on the sand. Given Bilbo’s constant distance to the surface he surmised that he was swimming into shallow water.

 

Relief flooded Bilbo’s senses. He wasn’t sure if that made him slow down, but the next thing he knew was intense pain as he was jerked almost to a stop. Panicking, Bilbo turned, eyes growing wide when he saw teeth clamped over one flipper. He swung his staff wildly. It bounced off the shark, startling it enough to open its jaw, and then Bilbo was off again, doubtless leaving a trail of blood behind him.

 

 _Please, please, please_. The words tumbled over each other in his head, along with an internal dressing down. He was so _stupid_. He shouldn’t have gone so far away from Hobbiton. Sharks never wandered close to such a crowded area, not when there were lookouts armed with slings. This was the price Bilbo had to pay, though, because he was so inquisitive about ships and land dwellers.

 

Was it worth it? Well, perhaps he’d consider the question if he got out of this altercation alive.

 

Bilbo gulped in a huge breath of air once he broke the water’s surface, but continued moving forward. He abandoned his swimming staff – he could retrieve it later – and used his hands to help pull himself up the beach. Wet sand squelched through his fingers, but Bilbo didn’t stop until he was many kicks away from the waterline; far enough that the shark wouldn’t be able to reach him even if it beached itself.

 

He collapsed onto the sand, staring up at the blue sky and the yellow sun, gasping and panting. The pain in his flipper was nonexistent. He’d have to do something about it before he returned to the water, but that would be some time in the future (just to make sure the shark had truly left). For now Bilbo lay on his back and breathed, listening to the wind ruffling the plants, the crash of the waves, and his slowing heartbeat.

 

His eyes closed of their own volition.

 

That had been entirely too much trouble for a tiny piece of _something_. It was almost enough to put Bilbo off exploring altogether. Almost.

 

He sighed, considering the way the daylight was turned orange behind his eyelids. Even being chased by a shark wouldn’t stifle Bilbo’s love of exploring. He loved to discover new things; as a Hobbitling he’d spent his hours escaping from lessons and pretending to have adventures. His father had shaken his head, but given that he’d known his wife’s character, Bilbo was quite sure that Bungo hadn’t _really_ minded.

 

The warmth of the sand made Bilbo drowsy but he resisted the urge to nap. He needed to take a look at his flipper, just to check it wasn’t still bleeding.

 

When he opened his eyes, Bilbo yelped loudly. Standing over him was a tall land dweller with a crooked nose as well as long grey hair on his head and in his beard. Bilbo’s momentary alarm, however, died away once he caught sight of the pointy hat the man wore; he recognised this ‘stranger’.

 

“Bilbo,” said Gandalf, sounding pleased. “Good morning.”

 

* * *

 

“It’s a mirror – piece of it, that is. They’re used primarily to see yourself… check how you look, that sort of thing.”

 

“Oh.” Bilbo caught his reflection in the _mirror_ fragment, watching his lower lip push forward. “That’s… disappointing.” Finding it hadn’t caused the shark to chase him, but the two situations were correlated. He felt cheated.

 

“There is a more interesting purpose, if you’d like to know.”

 

Seeing as they both knew how Bilbo enjoyed gaining more knowledge, particularly of land dwellers and the surface world, Bilbo merely waited in expectant silence.

 

“Mirrors can be used as a signal between ships, or between land and sea. It only has to be the same size as yours, or a little bigger, and the reflection of light can be seen from quite a ways away – especially if you’re looking out for that sort of thing.”

 

Bilbo tilted the mirror this way and that; he squinted when it managed to shine the sunlight into his face. “Why would you be looking out for reflections?”

 

“Sometime it’s a distress signal, especially if a land dweller is stranded at sea or on an uninhabited island. Sometimes it’s just to indicate to a friend that you are a friend.”

 

“Oh.” Bilbo licked his lips, tasting the usual sharpness of salt. “Why – how did it cut me?” He looked down at the corresponding finger which was wrapped in brown seaweed. His fin had received the same treatment as per Gandalf’s direction.

 

“The edges of mirrors are usually sharp, especially if broken. Like glass, or a knife.”

 

Bilbo knew what glass was – he did not often get to speak with and ask Gandalf questions, but he asked many of them when their paths did cross. But – “A knife?”

 

Their discussion lasted all the way to lunchtime. There was no excitement to chase away Bilbo’s hunger – or the low pain in his torn flipper –, so he was happy and surprised when Gandalf supplied him with suitable food.

 

Before he dug into his lunch, he looked at Gandalf’s full basket and the rod by his side. “You shouldn’t be fishing here,” Bilbo said disapprovingly.

 

Gandalf looked amused from under the brim of his hat. “You catch fish as well.”

 

“Yes but – but we eat all the fish we catch!”

 

“I sell any extra fish to people for _them_ to eat.” He sighed. “We’ve had this conversation before. This is not why I wanted to talk to you.”

 

Having just taken a large bite out of his fish – having assumed he’d won the ‘argument’ and that their conversation was over – Bilbo pushed his surprise aside as he chewed quickly, then swallowed. “You mean this wasn’t a chance meeting?”

 

“Not at all.”

 

Puzzled, Bilbo lowered the fish almost to his lap. “How in the sea did you manage that?” He wasn’t near Hobbiton; all their previous meetings had been Gandalf going to meet him there. “How could you have known where I was?”

 

Gandalf winked. “Magic.”

 

Bilbo had been given that answer many – too many – times before, enough to know that Gandalf wouldn’t entertain further questions on whatever subject they were discussing… unless it was to give vague hints and smirk mysteriously. Bilbo instead sighed. “What did you want to talk about?” he asked, before raising the fish to his mouth again.

 

“Well, you.” Gandalf seemed content to go without eating – a strange quirk if there ever was one, considering that he always turned down Bilbo’s offers of food. Instead he seemed to be fixing what he called a _net_. “Your hobby is quite unusual, isn’t it?”

 

He was careful not to snort, seeing as his mouth was full. Bilbo took his time answering; speaking while chewing was very ill-mannered, and if any of his older relatives had seen him doing so, he’d have been roundly lectured. “No one else knows what I do – I mean, Mother did, but that hardly means anything now.” She and father had died years ago. Too many years ago.

 

Gandalf inclined his head in response. He’d known Belladonna for a long time, back when the Old Took had been alive and she’d been a Hobbitling. It made Bilbo wonder exactly how old Gandalf was – especially since he’d not changed in looks from their first ever meeting – but that was another line of questioning that was met with nothing but an enigmatic smile.

 

“Why are you interested in my hobby?” Bilbo asked instead, discreetly picking a bone from his teeth despite the fact that Gandalf was still absorbed in his work.

 

He was treated to a shrug. “I was just wondering if you’d want to see an actual ship. One that hasn’t been lost to the sea and the ravages of time, that is.”

 

Bilbo carefully navigated the spine of the fish, using the time to maintain a bland expression. Just the mention of what was an impossibility had excitement and exhilaration coursing through his body, but he didn’t let these feelings cloud his judgement. “You know such a thing is far too dangerous. Not all legged people are like you – I’m not about to be responsible for the hunting of Hobbits just to satiate my curiosity.”

 

His brain supplied him with the proper images; of Big Folk using nets like Gandalf’s to catch Hobbits. But what would they do after? Keep Hobbits as pets or entertainment? Eat them? Just kill them for sport?

 

Keeping his gaze down, Gandalf raised his messy eyebrows. “Most land dwellers are not as cruel as you think.” He sniffed. “I’m not such a bad judge of character, thank you.”

 

Given that he and Gandalf considered each other friends (same going for Belladonna and the Old Took), Bilbo had to concede the point. “Some _are_ cruel, though.”

 

“Yes,” Gandalf said simply. “Orcs and Goblins in particular are quite nasty, but there are none who wander this far West.”

 

West, along with East, South, and North, was a direction. This and stars were apparently how seafaring vehicles could get from one place to another. They seemed to be ignorant of how to use the swell and dips of sea currents – the easiest and most consistent method, Bilbo thought.

 

“And other Big Folk do venture here?”

 

“Men, mostly,” Gandalf said, catching the unspoken question. He nudged his basket of fish closer to Bilbo, in case he was wishful of more. (Still being hungry, Bilbo did wish for more, and gratefully helped himself to seconds.) “Elves haven’t much care for leaving their realms.”

 

A bird flew overhead, calling loudly. It was white-and-yellow-and-black, and Bilbo watched its path for a moment as he collected his thoughts. Gandalf seemed content to continue with his work; then he spoke as if he’d not paused: “And there are still others that could theoretically reach this part of the world.”

 

Bilbo wanted to ask what that was supposed to mean – bother Gandalf and his love of ambiguity – but he was talked over. The tone of Gandalf’s voice dissuaded Bilbo from making too much of a fuss.

 

“If there was no threat to you, would you want to see a real ship? Maybe even swim close enough to touch it?”

 

“Of course I would,” Bilbo said, trying to hide the wistfulness in his voice. “You know I would.”

 

Gandalf hummed in a non-committal fashion, face impassive. Bilbo immediately felt suspicious. Narrowing his eyes, Bilbo let off from gnawing the fish tail in his grip. “What is it?”

 

“What is what?” Gandalf’s attempt at innocence fell flat, as it usually did. He could never quite hide the twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

 

“You’re not telling me something. I know that expression.”

 

“Every bit as sharp as Belladonna,” Gandalf said, sounding fond. “You’ll find out what I mean eventually. It’ll be good for you… and I daresay very amusing for me.” He stood, slinging his now-mended net over one shoulder. Then he bent over to retrieve his rod and mostly-full basket. “Until next time, Bilbo.”

 

Bilbo returned the farewell, tamping down on his foreboding. He watched Gandalf walk away, sand softly crunching under his feet, and then pulled his mirror from his bag. It alternated between glinting in the sun and showing him his frowning face; when Bilbo looked up, Gandalf was gone. His apprehension correspondingly rose.

 

For some reason, Bilbo had a feeling that he’d end up meeting Gandalf again – and while this turned out to be true, it would be much sooner that he’d thought.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Bilbo thought would be a normal day of babysitting turns into an undesirably crowded beach.

“Oh, Bilbo, you’ve arrived.” Mirabella Brandybuck née Took smiled at him as he surfaced in their large cave. “Come here; let me take a look at you.”

 

He returned her smile, pulling himself out of the water and approaching her. She took his face in her hands, peering at him carefully before nodding and kissing his cheek. “Hello, Aunt.”

 

She affectionately pushed Bilbo’s wet curls from his face. “Primula’s with Gorbadoc and Asphodel.”

 

“Where’s the rest of the pod?” By this time Bilbo was usually surrounded by Hobbitlings, each demanding different stories loudly and insistently. His Aunt and Uncle had a pod of seven strong – so far.

 

“Well, Rory’s off to work. The little ones are back to their lessons with Mistress Coral.” The relief was palpable in Mirabella’s voice. “Gorbadoc is taking Amaranth with him to the farm. And thank you so much for agreeing to look after Primula today – her sling is just here…” She let out a triumphant ‘ah!’ when she found it. “In fact, just let me just get her –”

 

Bilbo, having adjusted the sling over his shoulder, quickly put his hand on her arm, stopping her. “No, no, it’s fine. You don’t have to get up.”

 

She laughed, though her gaze remained sharp. “You’re as bad as my husband. I haven’t suddenly turned into a seashell, you know.”

 

“Have you decided on a name?”

 

“No,” Mirabella said, shaking her head. “I want to wait.” She gently stroked her belly. “And I think there may be more than one.”

 

“Truly?” When his Aunt nodded, Bilbo felt his face light up. “That’s wonderful news!” He’d have to choose his gifts carefully, then. Having twins or even triplets was not unusual, but it was definitely worth a celebration – not that it took much for Hobbits to celebrate anything.

 

She shushed him, even as her smile remained tucked in the corners of her mouth. “It’s a surprise, so don’t mention anything to your Uncle.”

 

“Don’t mention what? Are you talking about me?”

 

“Of course not, darling.” Mirabella winked at Bilbo. “I was just telling Bilbo how Amaranth will be going to farm kelp with you.”

 

“That means you _were_ talking about me.” Gorbadoc chuckled at the long-suffering sigh from his wife, and looked over his shoulder. “Primula, guess who’s here?”

 

Within a moment Bilbo had his arms full of his – as he called her – favourite cousin. She rubbed her nose against his cheek, tickling him with her whiskers, and Bilbo made sure to kiss her forehead. She’d definitely grown since last he’d seen her, but was still far from the gangly period of being a tween. Her eldest sister Amaranth, who _was_ a tween, peeked more shyly into the receiving area of the grotto.

 

“Hello, Cousin Bilbo,” she said softly, words clumsy and blush only just evident beneath her whiskers.

 

He smiled warmly at her. “I hear your tagging along with your father to his work. Are you excited?”

 

She nodded in response, trying to be subtle about rubbing a yet-rounded ear. Bilbo could remember when he’d been her age and his ears were forming. The itching had been terrible.

 

“She thinks she might help her Da once she gets to working,” Mirabella explained proudly. She gently gathered her daughter’s light hair and tied it off. “Such a responsible girl.”

 

Amaranth’s blush deepened.

 

“Why not join your brother?” Rorimac – Rory for short – spent most of the year down in South Farthing. He and others had the pivotal work of herding fish, particularly silvery herring and reddish-brown cod.

 

Amaranth glanced towards her mother; when no help came from that quarter, she met Bilbo’s eyes. “Don’t – not sure I want to, um, be so far from home,” she explained, stumbling over her words. “‘Specially now.”

 

Bilbo nodded. “That sounds –”

 

Primula, sprawling in Bilbo’s lap, abruptly interrupted him with a loud coo. Once she was sure his attention was on her, she then asked in whistles and clicks whether they’d be leaving soon.

 

“Don’t be rude,” Mirabella admonished. She raised her eyebrows when Primula tried an (upside down) innocent look, not impressed in the slightest. “You aren’t to interrupt when Bilbo – or _anyone_ – is talking.”

 

Expression now absolutely woeful, Primula shifted so she was the right way up again. From the way she curled her tail, bracing her front flippers on Bilbo’s lap, Bilbo _knew_ she was about to say something she’d regret.

 

“I think it’s time for us to leave,” Gorbadoc announced. His easy smile defused the situation; likely a planned effect, given the wink he shot Bilbo. He kissed his wife and chucked Primula under the chin. “Mind my youngest well, nephew,” was his parting remark to Bilbo.

 

Amaranth, already in the water, politely waved at everyone before taking her father’s hand. They both ducked under the surface and soon disappeared.

 

“Where are you planning on taking Primula?” Mirabella adjusted the shell that held her hair from her face. Her voice held just a hint of warning in it. “Not too far, I hope.”

 

Bilbo had a flash, then, a single image of the shark that had chased him only days ago. It was only for a moment, but the memory was vivid enough to leave him swallowing heavily. “Oh, no, no,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound too nervous or alarmed. “Just to Bywater. I think she’ll enjoy getting some sun.”

 

“Ah, that sounds nice.” Mirabella shifted, face growing serious. “Primula?”

 

Meekly, her youngest went to her.

 

“You behave now, child,” Mirabella warned, cupping Primula’s face in her hands. “I’ll not have you causing too much trouble – even if your cousin starts it.”

 

Primula grumbled at this (and so did Bilbo, though he did it in the privacy of his own head). She continued grumbling when Mirabella swept her up into a hug – then cheered up when this elevated position allowed her to start nibbling on her mother’s hair.

 

Bilbo put up a hand to conceal his smile.

 

* * *

 

Primula was happy to splash about in the shallows of Bywater Lagoon, chasing after small fish that looked like bright darts of yellow and blue. There was no one else about, it seemed, not that it bothered Primula in the slightest. Bilbo was quite happy that they were alone; he didn’t want company beyond his little cousin. With her entertaining herself – squealing happily – he could lie on the hot sand, having eaten a jelly for lunch, and ponder his dinner for the night.

 

She tired by the time the sun was at its highest, tummy full, and snuffled Bilbo’s side until he took her into his arms. He made sure to brush as much sand off her face as he could, humming a lullaby at the same time and rocking her gently. It didn’t take very long for her to drop off to sleep. Her snores were soft and made Bilbo’s heart feel full to bursting.

 

The afternoon was warm, lending a hazy quality to Bilbo’s thoughts. He tucked Primula into the sling Mirabella had supplied and made his way over to the shade slowly so he didn’t wake his cousin.

 

Bilbo dozed for awhile, listening to the soft crash of the waves and the rustle of the wind through the leaves. In his brief stretches of lazy consciousness, he thought about dinner, and then about who he would invite to his birthday party (a little early planning never hurt anyone) and their corresponding gifts.

 

He was considering the possibility of a coral necklace for Mirabella when he heard the scrunch of sand. Within a second he jolted awake, arms protectively curling around Primula, teeth bared.

 

The person before them had two standing legs like Gandalf, though he was not as tall. Also unlike Gandalf, this person did not wear a head covering, showing that the top of his head was smooth and hairless, though just at the top. There was hair surrounding the bare spot, and there was a lot of hair on his face.

 

With Bilbo watching, the newcomer bent at the waist, leaning forward. “Dwalin,” he said, voice deep, “at your service.”

 

Bilbo’s manners prodded him into action. “Bilbo Baggins at… at yours.”

 

The person – Dwalin – nodded and then unceremoniously plonked onto the ground. Bilbo tried not to stare too openly as he folded his legs. Luckily there were other things to catch his attention, like the odd ‘clothes’ Dwalin wore, and the… things… on his back.

 

“What… what are those?” he asked tremulously.

 

Dwalin glanced behind his shoulder. “These are Grasper and Keeper.”

 

Those were names. Most likely. Did that mean – “Are they young?” They looked small enough to be children; no doubt they were being carried on Dwalin’s back like Bilbo carried Primula. At the nonplussed expression that was levelled at him, Bilbo clarified, “Are they alive?”

 

“No. They’re weapons. Axes.” Dwalin drew one off his back – either Grasper or Keeper – and showed it to Bilbo. The sunlight caught the sharp edge of the _axe_. When Bilbo glanced back at Dwalin’s face, it was to catch a massive frown. “You know, I’m not sure why the Wizard recommended you.”

 

Who was this Wizard person? Did he mean Gandalf, the fisherman? That seemed odd, even though he was the most likely connection between Bilbo and Dwalin. Before he could open his mouth and ask, they heard someone calling out.

 

Dwalin seemed to recognise the approaching being – “Bless my beard!” – he grinned and got to his feet, replacing his axe in a practiced motion. “You’re wider and shorter than last I remember.”

 

The newcomer was also smiling widely, eyes crinkled at the corners. His hair was completely white and very much longer than Dwalin’s. As he watched, the two of them clasped each others’ upper arm, and then bashed their foreheads together with an audible _thwack_ , laughing.

 

Bilbo’s own forehead twinged in (unneeded?) sympathy. Land dwellers were _strange_.

 

“When did you get here?”

 

“Few minutes ago. Bummed a ride off a silk merchant. Cost me a ruby.” Dwalin shared a grimace with the stranger. (Relatively speaking, seeing as they were both basically strangers to Bilbo.) “I see _Deathless_ is still afloat.”

 

Both of them turned to gaze out towards the sea; Bilbo naturally followed suit, and felt his jaw drop open. That – that was a _ship_. That was a real ship, floating as Dwalin had remarked, bobbing proudly on the water. From this distance Bilbo could only guess at its actual size, although it looked about as big as the last ship he’d seen. All of a sudden, Bilbo found himself _very_ interested in why these two were on the beach.

 

“Ah, I presume this is our Hobbit,” the white-haired person said, and Bilbo reluctantly turned away from the ship.

 

He smiled uncertainly, rather wary of the ‘our Hobbit’ bit. “Bilbo Baggins.”

 

“Balin.” He made the same motion as Dwalin had, bending at the middle. “You’ve met my brother, I see. I hope he didn’t frighten you too much.”

 

Ah, siblings. They did look somewhat alike, despite the differences in hairstyle and height… in fact, Balin looked generally kinder, for all that he was clearly the elder of the two. Which reminded him –

 

“May I ask you a question?” At Balin’s nod (with Dwalin wearing a guarded expression in the background), Bilbo cleared his throat. “What beings _are_ you? For all that you’re all land dwellers, I do not think you are as Gandalf is.”

 

“Indeed not.” Balin seemed surprised at the question (as Dwalin had when Bilbo had asked about his axes), though he answered easily enough. “We are Dwarves, Master Baggins.”

 

“I see.” A beat. “What are Dwarves?”

 

* * *

 

It soon became clear that neither of the Dwarves seemed keen on explaining the background of their race, but they did oblige with some presumably well-known facts – that they were a stout people, most likely found in mountains deep underground, mining ores and forging weapons. Others were merchants, and others were sailors.

 

Apparently Balin had been sent ashore from the ship as a scout of sorts; Bilbo soon found himself absolutely surrounded by a multitude of Dwarves, each more different from the last. They varied in height and width, in hair colour and style, and in speech. It was very dizzying to the poor Hobbit, and he held a fervent hope that none of the ten would decide to be an enemy (especially considering he could only remember a few names).

 

The increased noise on the beach had roused Primula from her slumber. She grumbled for a moment before opening her eyes and peeking past the sling. When she saw that she and Bilbo were not alone, she squeaked in distress, cuddling close to her cousin.

 

“Hush, my darling,” Bilbo comforted, stroking her head. “You’re safe.” He hoped.

 

One of the Dwarves, the one with red hair somehow fixed in stiff peaks, gave the Hobbitling in Bilbo’s arms a suspicious frown. (In noting this, Bilbo also became aware that his eyebrows were part of his ornate hairstyle.) “What is _that_?” he asked, sounding horrified.

 

Bilbo fought the instinct to physically defend his charge. “‘That’”, he said mockingly, voice tight, “is my cousin. Her name is Primula.”

 

The Dwarves, all either standing or sitting, fell silent. Their expressions looked to be a mixture of confusion, horror, and surprise. Finally one of the younger ones, dark-haired and tall, burst out, “But she looks nothing like you!”

 

“Nonsense.” Bilbo snorted. “Her fur’s the exact shade as mine.” It was a shared trait from the Took blood, of course. Honestly! Just because Primula’s fur was currently single-toned didn’t mean they weren’t related. She was young yet, and no one knew if she would be striped like her Brandybuck father, or mottled like Bilbo himself.

 

The same Dwarf – Kíli, was it? – spoke again. “But you – you have hands and, and your nose isn’t like hers at all!”

 

Bilbo frowned. What a silly person. _Obviously_ Primula didn’t have arms and hands like his (and like the Dwarves). “All healthy Hobbitlings look like this – like her. Are you trying to say that your young ones – Dwarflings, is that right?”

 

A Dwarf with a strangely-shaped hat nodded helpfully.

 

“Right, that your Dwarflings are just… miniature versions of fully grown Dwarves?” It was an absurd idea, truth be told.

 

To Bilbo’s surprise, Balin nodded. “That’s about the size of it, lad.”

 

Now it was the Hobbit’s turn to lapse into silence. Land dwellers truly were worlds apart from his kin. Imagine, babies looking like tiny adults. Bizarre. Why hadn’t Gandalf discussed this particular aspect of legged people?

 

The hatted Dwarf approached Bilbo, crouching when he was about a tailslength away. “She does look right adorable, your wee cousin.” Bilbo somehow could tell that he was being genuine instead of presenting a meaningless compliment as a peace offering; this was further cemented by the way he smiled as Primula let out a stream of pleased clicks and coos. “Could I hold her?”

 

As nice as he seemed to be, Bilbo shook his head. “I… don’t think that would be a good idea.”

 

“Why not? I’m brilliant with kids.”

 

More than one of the other Dwarves nodded in agreement. Another red-haired Dwarf – Glóin, if Bilbo remembered correctly – was the loudest. “Bofur’s looked after my lad plenty o’ times. Sometimes I think Gimli’s fonder of him than of me.”

 

Bofur (the hat-wearing Dwarf’s name, apparently) smiled again, encouraging. “I’ll no’ drop her, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m stronger than I look.”

 

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” When the Dwarf didn’t back down, Bilbo sighed. “She doesn’t take kindly to strangers. More than that, all her teeth are already in – have been for a month.”

 

Baffled looks all around. “What’s the problem there?” asked one of the Dwarves (he had grey hair and a purple tunic).

 

“She’s liable to hurt you if she doesn’t like you.” He paused, then corrected, “Even if she does like you.” Since she was still a juvenile Hobbit, Primula had yet to learn how and when to gentle her bites. It was why parents (and the occasional babysitter) often carried scars given to them by their children.

 

Strangely, the Dwarves laughed at this announcement. Even Bofur joined in. “I think I can handle some nibbling, lad.”

 

“Oh, you think so?” Annoyed, Bilbo opened his mouth widely, for the first time baring his full set of teeth – fangs included. The silence that followed this time was gratifying and shocked. Bilbo rather thought he’s gotten his point across, and mischievously ran his tongue over the pointed tips of his teeth. “I think you’d best be careful.”

 

Bofur nodded shakily. He tried to reply but was interrupted by a voice – a voice that both he and Primula recognised.

 

“Are you frightening everyone already, Bilbo?”

 

Primula put her head out of the sling again, and Bilbo could feel her trembling with excitement when she caught sight of Gandalf.

 

To his credit, Gandalf smiled at her, reaching down to tickle her under the chin. She chittered with laughter.

 

“How come he didn’t get bitten?” Kíli’s whisper carried in the relative silence of the beach, and Bilbo shook his head.

 

Gandalf, having straightened, leaned on his fishing rod, directing an amused look towards Kíli. “I did not get bitten _this_ time, is all.” He looked over the assembled Dwarves, counting under his breath. “We seem to be missing three.”

 

Bilbo raised his eyebrows. Were they? He personally thought that the beach was too crowded – even as Balin explained that two of their number were watching over their ship. Even more Dwarves sounded vaguely horrifying. “Gandalf, why are all these people here?”

 

Unfortunately, his question went unheard. A Dwarf, the one with a worrying shard of something embedded in his forehead, responded to Gandalf’s statement with a mixture of hand gestures and guttural words in a language Bilbo had never heard before.

 

Dwalin spoke in apparent agreement. “He will come. He called a meeting with our kin, and such meetings are not concluded swiftly.”

 

“We must wait,” said Kíli’s fair-haired brother. “And I’m starving.”

 

“That’s right,” said the roundest of the Dwarves. He was also red of hair, though most of it was in his braided loop of a beard. “Lunch was promised.”

 

“Not to mention beer,” Bofur chimed in. Leaving aside the mystery of what ‘beer’ as, Bilbo considered the fact that Bofur and Bombur (the loop-bearded one) were brothers. He still couldn’t see the resemblance.

 

Bombur rubbed his palm over his belly. “Where’s the food, then? You said there’d be food.”

 

“And there is.” Gandalf spread his arms open wide; it made him look even taller. “All around. We’re in one of the richest fishing grounds this side of Middle-Earth.”

 

This announcement was met with groans from the Dwarves, a few questioning clicks from Primula, and an outraged noise from Bilbo. He reached up and tugged on the silvery swathe of material Gandalf always wore around his neck.

 

“Is this why you’ve invited these people here? To eat all our fish?”

 

Gandalf only chuckled. “Only joking, my boy. Even this lot can’t finish all the fish here.” He looked over the assembled Dwarves – half looked annoyed, half looked dismayed, and all impatient. “There is indeed food and drink, but it will have to be fetched from my dinghy.”

 

Bilbo cleared his throat. “In which case... Lovely to have met you all.” He tried a smile. “It was truly an… experience, but I’ll be leaving now.”

 

“Leave?” Gandalf asked incredulously. His fuzzy eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. “No, no, not possible. These Dwarves came all the way to meet _you_.”

 

“Well that certainly is news to me!” was the prim reply. Gandalf had mentioned nothing of the sort before this, and neither had any of the Dwarves. Though perhaps it should have been somewhat suspicious, given the way they had all made sure to introduce themselves to him. Bilbo shook his head. “At any rate, I have to return Primula to her parents. If they take her tales of meeting Dwarves as part of an active imagination, I’ll count myself lucky.”

 

Primula chirped at Bilbo, seemingly insulted that her cousin thought she couldn’t keep a secret. He dropped a kiss to her forehead.

 

“Will you come back?” Part of Bilbo was surprised Gandalf was asking instead of informing. “There’s still one Dwarf you need to meet.”

 

No one could call Gandalf anything but persistent, it seemed. Bilbo sighed. “I suppose we’ll just have to see what happens, won’t we?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo meets the remaining three Dwarves - including the unbearably rude Captain Thorin Oakenshield.

In the end, it was Bilbo’s inquisitiveness that got the better of him. Why would a bunch of Dwarves – plus one, should the last of them have finally arrived – want to meet him? He was a simple Hobbit and perfectly respectable. (Aside from the occasional foray into ship-exploring and being chased by sharks, but that went without saying.)

 

When Bilbo shimmied his way along the beach to where Gandalf and his guests had gathered, it appeared that they had finished their meal. This was realised with no small amount of disappointment; he’d been curious as to how they ate and what their diet consisted of, whether it was the same across species. He already knew that land dwellers could eat fish, but surely that wasn’t all. Surely there was food only available to those who loved above water.

 

“Ah, Bilbo. You came back.”

 

He met Gandalf’s warm smile with a self-conscious one of his own. “Meeting someone can hardly be any harm.”

 

Of course, he rescinded this opinion and regretted his decision to return when he _did_ meet that someone. The last Dwarf stepped forward and was introduced by Gandalf as Captain Thorin Oakenshield; he was tall, dark, imposing… and absolutely rude.

 

“This is the help you’re offering us,” the Dwarf said flatly. “ _A fish_.”

 

“Excuse me!” Bilbo exclaimed, extremely insulted. A _fish_ – why he never – “I am a Hobbit, and I’ll thank you to remember it!”

 

The Captain’s expression of deep scepticism did not change. “Very well, Hobbit. What is your weapon of choice?”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“Axe or sword. Which do you prefer?”

 

This seemed an unfair question, given that he’d only just learned what the former was today, and had no idea what the latter was at all. Bilbo nevertheless put his chin up. “I’ll have you know I’m quite skilled at conkers.” He was the undefeated champion in Hobbiton, beating cousins and friends alike. “Though I fail to see why that’s relevant.”

 

By the look levelled at him, Bilbo wondered if he should’ve used the land dweller term ‘clam’ instead.

 

“Thought so.” Thorin turned his fearsome glare onto Gandalf. “You call this thing useful?”

 

Before Bilbo could launch into an angry tirade at being called a ‘thing’ – things were kept in his secret room, he certainly wasn’t a _thing_ – Gandalf shook his head and said, “Hobbit have no use for weapons.”

 

“He should have _some_ inkling if he’s to accompany us on this quest.”

 

“And what do you expect, Thorin? For Master Baggins here to _stand_ beside you and fight?”

 

Thorin’s frown deepened (a feat which Bilbo had thought impossible). “He is a liability, then.”

 

“He is an asset, if only you’d listen.” Gandalf waited a beat, and when Thorin did not immediately argue, carried on. “No one else in your crew can hold their breath underwater as long as Bilbo or dive as deeply.”

 

This made Bilbo drop his softly simmering annoyance in favour of complete confusion. Why would anyone need him to dive to whatever depth? “Hang on,” he started.

 

Dwalin talked over Bilbo’s protests, crossing his arms over his wide chest. “This is beside the point. What of the meeting, Thorin? Is Dain with us?”

 

The ill-mannered Captain sighed and sat down; a susurration ran around the rest of the Dwarves.

 

A heavy frown settled on Dwalin’s brow. He persisted. “The other Dwarf lords?”

 

“They have said that this is our fight.” Thorin kept his eyes (which Bilbo had to admit were a very rare shade of blue he’d only before seen in a particular sea flower) on his boots. “They cannot - will not spare their navies.”

 

The Dwarf with hair the colour of sand spoke up. “Not even a single boat?” His name rhymed with Kíli’s, but Bilbo could not recall it.

 

Thorin sighed. “No.”

 

A silence fell over the gathered party. Bilbo felt distinctly uncomfortable; he knew very well that he was an outsider but this united disappointment amongst the Dwarves really highlighted that fact.

 

Ill at ease, Bilbo smoothed is fingers over the newly healing cut on his other hand; a jagged, pale line against his mottled skin.

 

“The plan still stands,” Glóin said finally, bashing his fist into the palm of his other hand. “Óin has read the portents –” here some of the Dwarves groaned wearily, but Glóin just raised his voice “– and the portents say it is time for us to act.”

 

“Blue and green flashes have been seen in the waves around Erebor.” Nori looked thoughtful, staring up at the sky and not meeting anyone’s eyes. “More’n that, merchant ships have managed t’ pass through unscathed.”

 

“ _When lights in the deep show the way to the keep_ ,” intoned Glóin, as if reciting the words from memory, “ _the reign of the Dragon will end_.”

 

“The Dragon?”

 

Bofur leaned forward, smiling helpfully. “That would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible: chiefest and greatest calamity of our age. Cutthroat pirate, heartless murderer, all around bastard… extremely fond of setting things on fire.”

 

Fire? Bilbo’s ears wiggled. What was fire?

 

Before he could ask, Kíli’s brother spoke up: “We don’t need an army! We’re fighters, all of us. To the last Dwarf!”

 

“Not to forget, we have a Wizard in our crew,” Kíli chimed in. “Gandalf would have sank a _thousand_ ships in his time!”

 

Gandalf coughed. “Well, I wouldn’t say thousands –”

 

“Well, then, how many?”

 

All the Dwarves – including Captain Oakenshield, who looked amused – turned to consider Gandalf. The fisherman-and-Wizard continued coughing, for long enough that Bilbo worried he was choking.

 

Dori (who’d asked the question) rose to his feet. “Go on, give us a number!”

 

This started up an absolute cacophony as all the Dwarves started shouting at Gandalf and at each other. All the Dwarves except Bifur, whose fingers formed gestures too quickly for the eye to catch, and Thorin, who sat tight-lipped and glowering. Bilbo was glad that his hearing above water was not as sensitive as it was under, else he’d have clapped his hands over his pointed ears. (He’d noticed earlier that Gandalf _and_ the Dwarves had rounded ears. Wasn’t that odd? It seemed an incongruous difference to have.)

 

The escalating argument was abruptly silenced when Thorin surged to his feet and shouted… something. The word or phrase was unfamiliar to Bilbo, foreign sounding and powerful enough to have the rest of the Dwarves immediately stop speaking – though perhaps that was due to the stern expression on their Captain’s face or due to their respect for him.

 

“If we have read these signs, do you not think others would have read them too? The Dragon has not been seen in several decades – is our keep left undefended, open to the pickings of Elves or Men? Do we sit back while others claim what is rightfully ours? Or do we seize this chance – to take back Erebor? _Du Bekâr_! _Du Bekâr_!” His voice rose with passion until all the Dwarves were infected with it – and they cheered and clapped Thorin on.

 

“You forget that there is no way into Erebor,” said Balin, tone sharp. To Bilbo’s amazement, it was enough to make even Captain Oakenshield look subdued. “A frontal assault is impossible.”

 

“There is a secret entrance,” Gandalf said. “As detailed in your map.”

 

“Aye,” agreed the Captain. “But it is not easily found – and even then we do not have a key.”

 

“Well… that may not be strictly true.” From within the folds of his grey clothes, Gandalf pulled out an item that Bilbo assumed was a key.

 

“How came you by this?” breathed Thorin, reaching out and carefully taking it.

 

To Bilbo’s eye the key did not look like an especially extraordinary thing, but that may have been because of his ignorance of its purpose (though he did now know that it would presumably help with locating whatever secret entrance Gandalf had mentioned). Held between Thorin’s fingers, Bilbo could see that the key was thin and angular, and quite unlike anything he had ever seen before. Did it contain some kind of innate power? Was it a weapon?

 

So concentrated on his meanderings was Bilbo that he missed most of the ensuing explanation. He caught some details – the key having belonged to Thorin’s father, and Gandalf remarking that they needed to be careful and clever. And then there was something about submerged caves.

 

“That’s why we need a burglar!”

 

“Well, not quite burglar,” corrected Gandalf. “But I think Master Baggins will do quite well as our pathfinder.”

 

“Pathfinder?” Bilbo looked around for a moment, half expecting there to be another ‘Master Baggins’ present. “What paths am I to find, exactly?”

 

“Haven’t you been listening, Bilbo? The path into Erebor, of course. It’s reachable only by water, given that a lot of the old cliffs on the island have collapsed.”

 

He narrowed his eyes at his friend, not appreciating Gandalf’s tone in the slightest. “That sounds an awful lot like adventuring. Bagginses _don’t_ go on adventures.”

 

Dwalin spoke up. “We’ve no call dragging Gentlefolk into our own affairs. I doubt he can fight or fend for himself.”

 

Bilbo nodded in agreement; perhaps he should have instead felt insulted, but first came self preservation. He didn’t want to face any sort of killer pirate.

 

Gandalf, on the other flipper, seemed to want to ignore Bilbo’s feelings on the matter. “When I saw our Hobbit only days ago, he’d just escaped the clutches of a shark. I’d hardly call that unable to fend for himself.”

 

Now that was preposterous – he’d just been lucky and had been able to swim quickly enough. Noting with horror that the Dwarves were now exchanging speculative looks, Bilbo quickly opened his mouth to protest, but found himself being talked over. It certainly seemed like the trend of the day.

 

“If I say Bilbo Baggins is a pathfinder, then pathfinder shall he be!” Gandalf said loudly. Having risen to full height, he towered over everyone else. For a moment the sky seemed to darken – which was impossible, surely, given that there were no clouds overhead. As Bilbo puzzled over this weather anomaly, the sky lightened again, along with Gandalf’s tone. He remained standing, though. “I have explained how a Hobbit would be useful for your cause. You asked me for my assistance – here is the solution I am giving you.”

 

“Surely Master Baggins is the one who decides if he wants to be a solution,” said Bombur, who seemed to be looking for something _inside_ his beard.

 

“Fine. We will do it your way.” Thorin said. “Give him the contract.”

 

“What?” Bilbo’s brow was furrowed and his nose wrinkled. No one seemed inclined to stop and explain things, however, and so he could only look on as the Captain accepted a folded piece of what looked like pale dried seaweed from Balin, and then thrust it towards Bilbo. It was a wonder Bilbo didn’t drop it.

 

The probably-not-seaweed was indeed dry to the touch. Bilbo traced his fingers along the surface, noting that it had a very slight texture. It didn’t crackle or fracture in his hands like dry seaweed would have. Was it as tasty as seaweed, though? Best not to try; he didn’t think it was food.

 

With only a little bit of fumbling, Bilbo managed to unfold the ‘contract’. Well, really it unfolded itself, managing to reach the sand despite his bearing it aloft.

 

Realising with a jolt that the Dwarves were again observing him carefully (and silently), Bilbo grimaced. “What exactly am I… supposed to do with this?” There were uneven lines in black all down the contract, with splashes of red as well. Was it supposed to make sense? He couldn’t make fin or tail of it.

 

When he didn’t receive an answer, Bilbo glanced up again, this time to looks of shock and horror from the Dwarves. (Gandalf looked amused, perversely.)

 

Finally the Captain spoke, voice as flat as a flounder. “He can’t read.”

 

“You Dwarves and your love of contracts.” Gandalf had retaken his seat on a large-ish rock, and now crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned backwards. “If only you’d asked beforehand, I would’ve told you this. What use is ink and parchment for someone who lives underwater?”

 

(Off to the side, Bilbo wondered which was the ink and which was the parchment.)

 

“What use is this creature to me,” Thorin bit out, apparently back to being horridly rude, “if he cannot manage something even the most unskilled of Dwarflings can?”

 

Now annoyance crossed Gandalf’s face. “Don’t be so foolish, Thorin Oakenshield. Bilbo doesn’t need to read; that is not what his purpose in your quest is. He can have the contract read to him.”

 

“Will he be able to understand?” Thorin asked sardonically.

 

“Oh, and I suppose you’re an expert on the rules of conkers,” Bilbo exclaimed heatedly, his fingers clenching and crinkling the contract. “And after that you can tell me what parrot fish eat!”

 

This seemed not to bother the Dwarf in the slightest; his thin lips remained in a straight, disapproving line. Bilbo wondered if he would be as unconcerned if he knew – as the other Dwarves knew – how sharp Bilbo’s teeth were.

 

He didn’t get to find out, as he felt the contract being tugged out of his grasp by Bofur.

 

“I can read this for you, if you’d like.” When Bilbo nodded bemusedly (curious as ever), Bofur smiled, bright as sunlight on water.

 

As he read, Bilbo learned that the contract was an agreement of some kind. It was not too dissimilar from business amongst Hobbits, where goods and services were exchanged at a pre-decided rate. The contract detailed things like the most-likely payment for Bilbo if he went along on the quest, and how certain losses would be recompensed by the Dwarves. In fact, everything seemed clear and to the point, when –

 

“Excuse me?” Bilbo wrinkled his nose. “What do you mean, ‘incineration’?”

 

Bofur lowered the parchment-and-ink. “Well, I did say that that was what the Dragon was fond of. Fire, I mean.” He reached up and under his hat to scratch his head. “He’ll melt the flesh off your bones, that kind of business.”

 

Even though Bilbo wasn’t completely sure what that meant, he could understand that it was _not_ a good thing. It sounded terribly uncomfortable.

 

Gandalf exhaled loudly. “Was it really necessary to detail ways of dying in this contract of yours?” he asked, sounding exasperated.

 

Balin opened his mouth to answer, but Bilbo spoke first, very sharply. “ _Dying_?”

 

“Well yes,” Bofur said, blithely unaware of the alarm in Bilbo’s face. “Though there’s an equal chance of all of us dying, you _do_ have to go into Erebor alone. If Smaug is alive and catches you, then he’ll definitely tear you apart. Hey, he might even try to eat you.”

 

Abruptly feeling like he’d be reacquainted with his jelly lunch, Bilbo pressed a hand to his mouth. His breaths came quick and shallow. This was madness! Who in their right mind would think he’d agree to a quest with certain death at the end of it? He’d almost been eaten by a shark not a week ago for goodness sake. Now these Dwarves (and Gandalf, surely he’d known all about this) wanted him to – to –

 

“You alright, lad? You look a little pale under those spots of yours.”

 

“I…” He wasn’t alright at all. “I need a moment,” Bilbo finally said, turning away.

 

“Oh, well done,” Gandalf said, sounding half exasperated and half disgusted.

 

“Did I say something wrong?” Bofur asked; though Bilbo had his back to everyone, he could plainly imagine the innocently confused look on his face.

 

Well, maybe Dwarves were crazy enough to want to risk their lives, but Bilbo wasn’t. He didn’t even _know_ these people – the only land dweller he did know was Gandalf and it turned out that he was a Wizard. Bilbo couldn’t help but wonder what other secrets were being kept from him.

 

Peripherally aware of the sound of steps on wet sand behind him, Bilbo kept pulling himself along the beach until the Dwarves were nothing but wordless murmuring. Only then did he stop and glare balefully up at Gandalf.

 

“You could have warned me.”

 

“Would you have believed me, Bilbo?” Gandalf sat, this time on the base of an almost horizontal tree. “If I’d spoken to you about pirates and Dwarves, would you be here right now?”

 

“No! And for good reason!”

 

“What reasons would that be, hmm? You are not the only Baggins under the sea.”

 

“But I am one.”

 

“You are also a Took,” Gandalf pointed out.

 

Bilbo snorted, looking away across the calm water. He caught sight of the Dwarves’ ship, floating quietly atop the water. He itched to swim towards it, perhaps to even be allowed inside – but not if the potential price was his life.

 

“Your great-granduncle ‘Bullroarer’ Took, he was a force to be reckoned with. He was known in the Shire for his bravery, and for the fact that he was as big as a porpoise. During the Battle of Greenwaters he led the charge, knocking a shark clear out of the water with one swing of his club.”

 

Yes, well, of course Bilbo knew this. He’d had to learn Shire history, same as everyone else. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, Gandalf, but he was _not_ the norm,” he retorted, making only a half-shelled effort to hide his irritation.

 

“Neither was Belladonna, but your father loved and married her all the same.” Gandalf sighed; now that Bilbo had turned back, he could clearly see the lines in his friend’s face. “You used to be quite an adventurer when you were a Hobbitling; coming home trailing snails and seahorses. What’s changed?”

 

Bilbo trailed a hand through the fine sand, letting it trickle slowly between his fingers. “Exploring now just gets you eaten – whether by a shark or a pirate.”

 

“That is not a guarantee, my boy.”

 

“Neither is my coming back alive. You can’t be sure of that… can you?”

 

“No. I cannot.” Gandalf was gentle, but firm. “And if you do come back, you will not be the same.”

 

“That’s hardly encouraging.” He was fifty already; set in his ways and quite happy about it. But why was he still listening to all this? Why was there still a part of him that entertained the idea of going on a life-threatening and life-altering adventure?

 

“I’m not going to lie to you just so you’ll agree,” Gandalf replied – apparently comfortable with the truth omitting he’d done to get Bilbo here in the first place. “But I will tell you again; this will be good for you. I really believe that.”

 

The smile crept over Bilbo face before he even realised it. “And amusing as well, hmm?”

 

His fisherman friend shrugged his shoulders, though he was clearly not repentant in the slightest. He looked like he would further respond, but both heard the crunch of sand underneath what could only be Dwarvish feet.

 

“Gandalf.” Thorin’s voice gave away his identity even before he stepped into Bilbo’s line of sight. For all the Captain’s deplorable lack of etiquette and tact, he’d been blessed with a voice as smooth and dark as pearls. “Evening has come. My crew and I will be returning to _Deathless_.”

 

Knowing that _Deathless_ was the name for the ship floating so close to the beach, it was not unexpected – but still mortifying – when Bilbo asked, “May I accompany you?”

 

Gandalf looked like he was trying to stifle laughter; the fingers that had been stroking through his beard had crept upwards to cover his mouth. His eyes were on the Captain, and Bilbo could see the laughter dancing in them even though his glance had been fleeting.

 

Thorin considered him with an air of confused surprise, large eyebrows drawn together in the middle of his forbidding forehead. The expression made him look more severe than usual; this and the intensity of his gaze made Bilbo feel like he was being stared down by a predator. His heartbeat quickened and his fingers twitched.

 

“Just – just to have a look around, that’s all.” Another glance at Gandalf confirmed that he’d be no help, so Bilbo forged forward, “I’ve only ever seen them underwater, you know. Damaged.”

 

The Captain shifted his weight, arms crossed over his chest. “Does this mean you have accepted your position in the crew as our pathfinder?” he asked sceptically, still frowning.

 

Despite his answer options being either ‘yes’ or ‘no’, and despite the fact that he’d been sure but moments ago that his answer would’ve been the latter, Bilbo found himself at a blank. “Um,” he managed, feeling like his throat had dried out. “Er.”

 

Fortunately, Gandalf chose this moment to cut in. “Bilbo’s just told me that you’ll have his decision by noon tomorrow.”

 

One of Thorin’s eyebrows rose. “Really.”

 

In response to an unspoken question only he was aware of, Gandalf explained, “Bilbo needs the time to get his affairs in order. Isn’t that right, Bilbo?”

 

“I…” Still unable to meet Thorin’s piercing gaze head on, Bilbo kept his eyes on the intricate braids in his dark hair. “Yes. That’s right.”

 

Thorin scrutinised him for a moment longer before huffing. “…fine.” He turned away. “You may accompany us aboard.”

 

Given that the ship looked to be in water deeper than Gandalf was tall, Bilbo only nodded to himself when he saw that the land dwellers would use _boats_ to get to it. He knew what boats were; Gandalf used one of his own when catching fish. There were four boats altogether, able to comfortably bear four Dwarves (or two Dwarves and a Gandalf) each.

 

With the sun ever dipping towards the horizon, Bilbo slipped into the water and swam alongside the boats; his flippers curved lazily as he simultaneously watched the Dwarves and kept out of their way. They used what Bofur explained were ‘oars’ to force themselves (and the boats) forward, just as fins or flippers or a tail could do.

 

Once they all reached the ship, Bilbo realised that there was a problem. The Dwarves nimbly alighted from their respective boats and made their way up the side of the ship, all without getting even so much as a drop of water on themselves. As the waves lapped at his shoulders, Bilbo stared up at the ship. Now that he was this close, it seemed immense. This had nothing to do with its size; the shipwreck he’d last visited was just as big, but it had been completely immersed in the sea and therefore it had been completely accessible to Bilbo. Only a third of this ship was underwater; getting to the top looked impossible for anyone with a tail.

His doubts turned out to be immaterial.

 

“Dori, carry the Hobbit aboard,” Thorin called. The Captain had already reached the top of the ship, leaning over the side with an expression Bilbo would call contempt.

 

Bilbo was beckoned closer to the ship. Dori’s apologetic smile was all the warning he received before he was unceremoniously slung over the Dwarf’s shoulder like he weighed less than air bubbles. Not sure what to do with his hands in such a situation, Bilbo carefully fisted them in the back of Dori’s tunic. When Dori said nothing to this, Bilbo attempted to make himself comfortable – impossible – and then kept as still as possible until they both reached the top of the ship.

 

“Welcome aboard _Deathless_ , Master Baggins,” Dori said, waiting for Bilbo to release his tunic before lowering him onto the floor.

 

Bilbo was immediately struck by how dry the floor was. It was about as dry as sun-warmed sand, though not as gritty. And while it was smooth, it couldn’t compare to sea-levelled stone. Out of the water, Bilbo could finally appreciate the deep brown colour of the wood instead of the gauntly green it usually was. The surface looked clean, free of the sea-structures of barnacles or coral or anemones.

 

His eyes grew wider and wider as he cast his gaze about. There were new things to see everywhere he looked, things that he could not name. If ships had seemed foreign underwater, they were even stranger above it.

 

“Are you alright, lad?” Bofur bent his legs so he was about the same height as Bilbo. His smile was easy and affable, with concern tucked away in his eyes.

 

“I…” Bilbo wasn’t quite sure how to answer that question. On one end of the tail, he was physically whole and not in immediate danger. On the other, there were so many questions clamouring in his mind that he felt he would soon burst. “What is that?” he asked finally, pointing.

 

“Rope,” Bofur said after a quick glance in the relevant direction. “It’s chiefly used to tie things together.”

 

Bilbo nodded as if this made perfect sense, following the criss-cross and twisting ways the _rope_ intersected and attached. They looked similar to the cords Hobbits made from braiding the stipes of seaweed, but were thicker and probably stronger. By the looks of things, it was probably a safe assumption that ships were made half of wood and half of rope.

 

“Y’know, if you do end up joining us, I wouldn’t mind teaching you names and uses of everything you’re unfamiliar with.” He reached up and under his hat to scratch the back of his head. “If you’d like.”

 

Bilbo tried a tentative smile of his own, conscious of not showing too much teeth. “If, if I do join you, then yes. Please.” Despite his outward wariness, Bilbo felt like he could kiss Bofur – if he hadn’t been raised to limit kisses to family and potential life partners, that was. Not that the Dwarf was unattractive – for a not-Hobbit – with his kind eyes and his endearingly odd moustache and his lovely smile. But, well, outward appearance wasn’t everything. Besides which, Bilbo was quite sure that he’d _not_ have a prospective partner, never mind what species. Why was he even –

 

Thankfully Bilbo’s worrying trail of thought was disrupted by a piercing whistle.

 

“Oh, here, Ori lad – you’ll want to meet our new pathfinder,” Bofur called, waving over a young Dwarf with red-brown hair. “Or, maybe-new pathfinder. He hasn’t decided yet.”

 

Ori approached them cautiously, almost shyly. He clutched something to his chest.

 

“What are you holding?”

 

Blink. “It’s a book.” Ori hastened to show the front of it to Bilbo; it looked to be made of some sort of hide, naturally or dyed to look red. The width of the whole _book_ was about the width of Bilbo’s palm. “I’m acting as the crew’s scribe; I plan on chronicling our quest.”

 

Bilbo sent a supplicating glance towards Bofur.  


“He’ll be recording what all we’ll be doing on our journey. For future reference.” Bofur looked back up towards Ori. “This here’s Master Baggins. Bilbo Baggins.”

 

“At your service,” Bilbo said, having picked up the Dwarvish style of introduction.

 

“And I am at yours.” Ori was back to hugging his book, and chewed on his lower lip for long enough that, had he possessed teeth as sharp as a Hobbit, he’d have drawn blood. “Master Baggins, I… could I ask you some questions?”

 

“What about?”

 

“Well, about you. Your people I mean. Hobbits. And your lives.” Ori fiddled with one of his braids. “You’re the first Hobbit I’ve ever met, you see, and there isn’t any information other than myths and – do Hobbits really lure sailors to their deaths?”

 

 _What_? “Where did you ever hear such a thing?” Bilbo asked, horrified. How could anyone even think that Hobbits were capable of such awfulness?

 

“They’re – they’re just tales that’ve been spread. I’ve heard a few in port taverns over the years.”

 

“He’s certainly pretty enough,” Bofur remarked offhandedly, and Bilbo’s eyes grew even wider.

 

“I –”

 

A new voice broke in, cutting through Bilbo’s mortification. “What in Mahal’s name is _that_?”

 

“Óin!” Bofur greeted. “This here’s our Hobbit! Name’s Bilbo Baggins.”

 

“Who’s having a fit?” This latest Dwarf looked a little like Glóin – given that their names rhymed, they were likely related – and held a contraption up to his ear. Bilbo guessed that he was hard of hearing, just like one of his Baggins aunts who used a conch instead.

 

“Hobbit,” Ori said loudly. “He’s our _Hobbit_.”

 

“Oh.” Óin glared down at Bilbo, his hair and beard a mess of white and grey. After a long moment of silence, he declared, “Looks odd.”

 

“Should’ve seen his cousin,” Bofur muttered.

 

Bilbo glared.

 

* * *

 

All too soon, night fell. The moon hung in the sky like a glowing nautilus shell, and already Bilbo’s head was swimming with a myriad of new words and their meanings. In return he’d explained some basics of Hobbit life, watching as Ori eagerly scratched his strange markings into his book.

 

Finally, Gandalf walked up to Bilbo, leaning against the side of the ship – that was to say, the side of the _main deck_. “Oughtn’t you be leaving? It takes some time to pack for the journey – and more time than that to come to a decision.”

 

Bilbo glanced up at the mostly-clear sky; grey clouds hung between the stars, turned silver in the moonlight. They were perfectly reflected in the surface of the calm water. “You’re right,” Bilbo said. “I’m late for my supper.”

 

“You’re welcome to join us, lad,” Bofur offered. “I’ll wager there’s something in our stores that’s fit for your belly.”

 

“That’s – that’s very kind,” Bilbo said, smiling. “But I wouldn’t want to impose. And besides, as Gandalf says, I need to… think.” What was he even saying? The only choices he had to consider were being killed and/or eaten by a pirate, or continuing to live his peaceful life. That hardly merited consideration.

 

“Alright, then. Let’s get you back to the water.” Bofur got up out of his seated position and offered a hand to Bilbo before pulling it back quickly. “Sorry about that,” he said, clearly embarrassed, “forgot you didn’t have legs.”

 

Unsure if this was an insult or a compliment, Bilbo didn’t respond. He smiled at Dori when the Dwarf joined them and, with as much grace as he could muster, suffered being swept up into Dori’s stocky arms.

 

Expecting Dori to climb over the side of the ship and down towards the waterline, Bilbo was surprised when he was instead deposited into one of the boats. He blinked.

 

“You’re going to be lowered down,” Dori explained, pointing towards the ropes that held the boat up.

 

Bilbo wasn’t sure exactly how this would be achieved, but he nodded all the same. “Why wasn’t I brought up this way?” It would’ve been easier, surely, and he’d have been less of a burden on Dori. Bilbo had no illusions of being as light as a handful of krill; he was a healthy Hobbit with a correspondingly healthy weight.

 

“Dunno, lad,” said Bofur, fiddling with the rope. “Cap’n’s orders.”

 

Ah, yes, the Captain – one who wasn’t even bothered to see Bilbo off (never mind whether Bilbo was joining the quest or not). It was more than evident that the Dwarf was ill-mannered.

 

“See you tomorrow!” Ori said eagerly, waving.

 

Bilbo returned the gesture, trying not to feel too guilty. There would be no ‘seeing him’ tomorrow. He wouldn’t be returning to this ship and that was the end of it. Still, he let the young Dwarf have his hope, and himself hoped that Ori wouldn’t take his absence tomorrow too badly.

 

Dori and Bofur worked the ropes in such a way that the boat, with Bilbo in it, was lowered steadily. In only a few moments he found that he was near enough to the water, and pulled himself over the edge of the boat, slipping into the sea with a sigh of relief. Though his kind was perfectly capable of spending long periods above the surface, it was not a comfortable or preferable state of being.

 

After the boat was raised and more goodbyes exchanged, Bilbo found himself lingering. Hidden from view, Bilbo floated in the shadow of the ship, pressing one hand to the wood. This was likely the last time he’d be so close to a ship that wasn’t at the bottom of the sea and he wanted to preserve the memory.

 

“Is he gone?”

 

Bilbo’s ears wiggled. He knew that voice, for all that he disliked its owner. Captain Oakenshield.

 

“Aye.” That sounded like Balin. “I don’t think he’ll be coming back, Thorin.” He sighed. “Probably for the best, I think. This was an impossible task to undertake. We’re pearl-fishers, merchants, patternmakers, miners; hardly the stuff of legend.”

 

“There are a few mariners amongst us,” Thorin teased. Bilbo was amazed that the Captain’s tone extended beyond curt contempt.

 

“Old seadogs,” Balin replied. (What were seadogs, though?)

 

“I will take each and every one of these Dwarves over all the navies of the Kingdoms. These were the only ones to agree to serve under _Deathless_ ’ sails; they would follow me into the jaws of the kraken itself. Loyalty. Honour. A willing heart. I can ask no more than that.”

 

Bilbo frowned. Was his reluctance the reason Thorin didn’t think much of him?

 

“– you have built. Do not throw all that away for – for legacies lost.”

 

“There is no choice, Balin.” Though Thorin’s voice was quiet enough that Bilbo had to strain to hear, the pain within his words was exceptionally apparent. “Not for me. Even if I have done well by our people, as you say, I can do better. I can give them back their homeland. Our homeland.”

 

“Then we’re with you, laddie. We’ll see it done, pathfinder or no.”

 

This seemed the end of their conversation, and Bilbo rested his forehead against the ship, his thoughts spinning. The water swelled and subsided gently, swirling between Bilbo’s flippers and coiling against the ship’s body.

 

Somehow it had taken an overheard conversation to reveal the gravity of the Dwarves’ and Gandalf’s request. It had not fully occurred to Bilbo that these land dwellers were on a mission to reclaim their _home_ – he’d assumed that they were off to conquer lands and territories, to help no one but themselves.

 

The aching longing in Thorin’s voice was enough to make Bilbo’s heart beat faster in sympathy. It was obvious now that he was more than a Captain – he was a leader of his people, and one that put their needs before his own. Regaining Erebor wasn’t meant to be a show of daring and strength; it was a desperate attempt to succeed where others had obviously failed.

 

How could Bilbo have been so shallow-minded? Yes, he might not return from this quest – but if he did return, it would be to a _home_. None of these Dwarves could say the same. Who was he to refuse any attempt to help them find their own Bag End?

 

Bilbo suddenly realised that the silence had been broken; the humming was faint at first but it grew, grew until it filled the night sky as all the Dwarves joined in. Together their voices were deep and passionate and full of memory. Bilbo craned his neck, gazing upwards unseeingly as he tried to imagine what expressions each Dwarf wore as they sang.

 

He listened and listened until the last note had died away into the wind – then waited for a moment more. In the silence, Bilbo tried to calm his breathing and slipped into the water. He returned home with a look of intense concentration on his face, thankful that no one beset him on his way (and the ocean help whoever thought that would’ve been a good idea). He was disquieted by the Dwarves’ song and started at the ceiling of his grotto for a long, long time.

 

When Bilbo’s eyelids finally slipped closed, he could still hear Thorin singing.

 

 _Far over the misty mountains cold_ …


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo joins the quest, and learns more about what he's gotten himself into.

Bilbo was late.

 

He’d overslept – meeting thirteen Dwarves would have been stressful for anyone – and had had to hurry through asking Hamfast to mind his home. His friend and neighbour had taken it all in stride, not even demanding to know where Bilbo was off to. (Unlike a lot of the gossips in Hobbiton, who loved poking their noses into anything they could.)

 

Now he was swimming as quickly as he could – almost as quickly as he’d done when that shark had been involved – coral staff in one hand, bag slung across his chest, and completely sure that he’d forgotten _something_.

 

Given the size of the ship, it wasn’t difficult to determine which direction the Dwarves had gone. He made sure to remain just under the surface, sucking in quick breaths when he breached the waves, instead of wasting time by stopping. The wind seemed to be in Bilbo’s favour; he managed to close the distance without bursting his lungs or completely exhausting himself in the process.

 

He drew alongside _Deathless_ , hoping someone had an eye or ear out for him. “Wait!” Bilbo called as he leapt out of the cerulean water. “Wait for me!”

 

Of the Dwarves that went to look over the side of the ship, only a handful cheered when they saw him (Bofur and Kíli included). Gandalf stood at one end of the ship, leaning on his fishing rod and completely unsurprised.

 

Once Bilbo was brought on board and had returned the greetings directed to him, he announced, “I’ve decided to join the quest.”

 

“Well, _obviously_.”

 

Bilbo shot an affronted look towards Kíli’s light-haired brother. He might have responded sharply as well, but Balin broke in gently.

 

“If that’s so, Master Baggins, you’ll have to sign the contract.” Balin’s smile was kindly as he noted Bilbo’s baffled look, and he pulled out the parchment-and-ink from the night before. “You remember; Bofur read through it for you.”

 

The contract wasn’t the source of Bilbo’s confusion. “What do you mean, ‘sign’?”

 

Ori appeared, putting his hand on Bilbo’s bare shoulder. As Bilbo had peripherally noted yesterday, Ori wore a soft covering on his hands, covering all but his fingers. The purpose of this was anyone’s guess.

 

“Here,” the young Dwarf said, pressing a _feather_ into Bilbo’s hand. He went on to explain that it was called a quill – to be precise, it was a self-inking quill that he had designed himself.

 

Not fully understanding, Bilbo nodded all the same. “So ‘signing’ involves me marking the contract?”

 

“Yes,” said Ori. Balin nodded.

 

“But… how would I do that?” Staring at the quill in his hand yielded no answers, so Bilbo looked up, glancing from Ori’s face to Balin’s. “All these symbols are – I don’t know what they are or what they mean, much less how to recreate them.” Any attempt would probably fail, or at least end up insulting someone.

 

Again, Ori’s half-covered hand came down on Bilbo’s shoulder, gently squeezing. “No one expects you to learn how to write,” he soothed. “You’ll just have to copy one rune – and I promise that it’s not too difficult. You’ll manage.” He hunkered down, opening his book to a blank ‘page’, and gently took the quill from Bilbo’s hand. “You just have to draw one line –” and as he spoke, the hand holding the quill moved accordingly “– and then another.”

 

Bilbo raised his eyebrows. “That’s all?” he asked, as if he thought the task laughably easy. (For reference, this perception was completely untrue.)

 

“That’s all.” Ori held out the quill. “It’s quite simple.”

 

Yes. Simple for anyone who’d studied how to ‘write’ for more than the few minutes he’d had. He could still recall Thorin’s pointed condescension. Bilbo could only imagine that Dwarflings – the smaller versions of Dwarves they called children – learned this skill alongside reading, just as Hobbitlings learned vocalisation and hunting.

 

Still. It couldn’t be _that_ difficult.

 

The contract had been laid out on the deck, and Balin helpfully pointed to the clear space at the bottom, where Bilbo was meant to sign. Mentally shrugging, Bilbo leaned over and copied the rune Ori had drawn. He finished quicker than anticipated, and surveyed his handiwork. The first line was wobbly and almost vertical, while the second one was more confident, straight as a swordfish’s bill and cutting through the first line neatly.

 

Balin retrieved the contract and peered at the mark Bilbo had put down. “This will do quite nicely, laddie,” he said, sounding pleased, then folded and stowed the contract. “Welcome, Master Baggins, to the crew of Thorin Oakenshield.”

 

A ragged cheer went up amongst everyone on deck who was paying attention – except Thorin who had his arms crossed and his mouth turned down in a scowl, and Gandalf who was trying to stifle a grin.

 

“Get him a hammock,” Thorin ordered as he turned away, obviously having lost all interest in the proceedings. “The rest of you; quit your lollygagging and get back to work. Mister Dwalin, continue on course.”

 

Bilbo, having asked where the Dwarves slept while in the ship, had a reasonable understanding of hammocks. Thoughtful as it was to allocate one to him, Thorin should have worked out that Hobbits couldn’t sleep in such things. Bilbo would end up being an encumbrance since he’d need to be lifted into and out of a hammock each time he slept and woke. Best come up with some other sleeping arrangements.

 

“I – that’s not necessary!” Bilbo called, voice raised – and judging by the way Thorin stiffened and stopped, he must have heard. “I’ll sleep on the floor if it’s all the same to you.”

 

Thorin, having put a foot on the bottom step leading towards the poop deck (it was amazing how many new terms Bilbo had managed to retain) turned around slowly. To the untrained eye, his expression would’ve been described as blank, but Bilbo noticed the clenched fists held at Thorin’s sides. “If you sleep on the floor, you will be trod on in the darkness.”

 

That did sound unpleasant… whatever ‘trod on’ meant. “I’d feel more comfortable if I could sleep in the water,” Bilbo ventured cautiously. While it was quite possible for Hobbits to stay above the surface for long periods of time, it was not preferable. There was a reason why Hobbits did not venture far from the waterline of a beach.

 

“Would you like us to tie you on a line and drag you behind us?” Thorin asked – and while Bilbo was still confused or ignorant about many things, sarcasm wasn’t one of them.

 

Before he could retort sharply, Glóin stepped in. “What about the shark tank, Thorin?”

 

Fit in a – “You keep sharks in the ship?” Bilbo wasn’t sure if he was more horrified at the idea of the Dwarves catching and keeping sharks, or the idea that they would want to house him with one.

 

“There are those who’ll pay top bob for live sharks,” Glóin said carelessly. “Just a few, mind, but often enough that we’ve a tank to transport the things. Right lunatics.” He looked Bilbo over from head to tail, then said to Thorin, “He should fit in it, no problem.”

 

“Fine,” Thorin sighed. “Haul the shark tank into the crew’s quarters and chuck the Hobbit in. Fíli, Kíli!”

 

Ah – that was the fair-headed Dwarf’s name! Bilbo watched as he and Kíli landed on the deck. They’d both been up in the shrouds (or were the mess of ropes called by another name?) for some reason or another, and now stood to attention in front of Thorin.

 

“Start gathering seawater and fill the tank.” Thorin raised his eyebrows when they protested, talking over them, “Do it _now_. And don’t be tempted to use the water from our drinking supply – or even from the bilge. I’ll know.” He snorted. “In fact, even Master Baggins will know.”

 

“Aye aye, Captain,” Fíli said quickly, grabbing Kíli’s elbow.

 

As they hurried past, arguing in low mutters, Bilbo reflected that both of them – particularly Kíli – reminded him of someone. He might have said Thorin, given Kíli’s dark hair and Fíli’s blue eyes, but that was ridiculous. Thorin didn’t _smile_ ; the very idea was laughable.

 

Bilbo considered the Captain, standing at the helm beside Dwalin, his arms crossed and scowl firmly in place.

 

No. Fíli and Kíli must have reminded him of someone else.

 

* * *

 

Being aboard a ship was an unusual experience. Bilbo had learned many new things from Bofur and Ori (and more rarely, one of the other Dwarves). In return he told them about his life as a Hobbit – how Hobbitlings like Primula grew to maturity, what their diet consisted of, basic history, that sort of information. He considered this more than fair trade, even though he was never allowed to question too deeply into Dwarvish culture and customs.

 

He supposed everyone was allowed their secrets.

 

The biggest adjustment Bilbo had to make was getting used to the motion of the ship. Being on land or underwater meant very little heaving or rocking like _Deathless_ seemed to go through. It didn’t quite make Bilbo nauseated, distracted as he usually was by observing new sights or having conversations, but he always found it difficult to fall asleep.

 

Tonight the shifting of the ship was more violent than usual, traversing increasingly choppy waves. Bilbo lay at the bottom of the shark tank that had become his bed, watching as the surface of the water above him presumably echoed the shape of the sea outside.

 

A fuzzy shape hovered over the tank; given the colour and size of the beard, Bilbo correctly guessed that it was Balin. He quickly sat up.

 

“Trouble sleeping?” Balin asked sympathetically, sitting down on a small wooden crate. When Bilbo nodded, he said, “You’ll soon grow accustomed to it; all sailors eventually learn to sleep through the worst of storms.”

 

“Could I ask you something?”

 

Balin smiled at him invitingly.

 

Bilbo glanced about the crew’s sleeping quarters, where only one hammock was filled and swaying with the motion of the ship – Óin’s, he thought. He faced an expectant Balin. “Who is the Dragon?” he asked, keeping his voice quiet even with no one to overhear them. “What happened that the Captain – that all of you hate him so much?”

 

“This isn’t a story that will put you to sleep,” Balin warned unnecessarily. “And it isn’t a short one.” He reached behind his ear, retrieving a small, thin piece of wood. One end of it was red.

 

“What’s that?” Bilbo asked, momentarily sidetracked.

 

“It’s called a match.”

 

“And what does it do?”

 

One corner of Balin’s mouth lifted. “You’ll find out, my lad. Now, let me see…” He started patting himself down with his free hand, clearly looking for something. After a moment or so he produced the object of his search with a flourish. When Bilbo saw it, he had to do a double take. It looked… familiar.

 

“I’ve seen that before,” Bilbo said slowly, frown creasing his forehead. “Not – not this particular one, of course not, but one that looks… similar.”

 

Balin thrust it forward for Bilbo to examine at his leisure. “It’s a pipe,” he said, and then wiggled the match he held in his right hand. “This makes fire, you see, and then I can light my pipe so as to have a smoke.”

 

Bilbo opened his mouth.

 

“I think we’ll leave smoking for a future explanation,” Balin suggested, sitting back and arranging his legs so that one crossed over the other. He held the thin end of his pipe between his teeth, speaking around it with the ease of practice. “Since you did want to know about our enemy.”

 

Bilbo closed his mouth. Balin was right – new questions could wait.

 

"They call him The Dragon," Balin explained, "because he burns the ships of his enemies." He scratched the match over the sole of his boot and it flared to life, dancing warm and welcoming where it was pinched between his calloused fingers.

 

Bilbo's eyes widened and he drew in a hushed gasp. His eyes never left the match as Balin poked it down into the cupped end of his pipe before shaking it out and tossing it through a porthole, out of the ship and into the water.

 

It was the first time in his life that Bilbo had seen fire. He was both frightened and fascinated.

 

Balin’s cheeks hollowed as he breathed in, and he exhaled wispy tendrils of white. Bilbo made a mental note to ask about this later.

 

“You saw the fire I lit with one match?” He waited for Bilbo to nod. “The thing about fire is that it especially likes to burn wood. Eat it, almost. Destroy it.” Balin exhaled more white curls – the ones from earlier had dissipated. “The Dragon would use enough fire to engulf entire ships and their crew… somewhat ironic, all things considered.”

 

Bilbo’s throat was dry. “And does fire eat people the way it does wood?”

 

“Aye.” Balin’s gaze was faraway, as if he was lost in memory. “Being awake as you’re burned alive is horrifying enough that I can’t and don’t want to imagine the pain. I’d much rather be run through with a sword, or have my head chopped off, or –”

 

Bilbo hurriedly cut him off midstream. “You don’t need to elaborate. I understand.”

 

“Ah, yes. Sorry.” He gave a delicate cough. Returning the end of the pipe to his mouth again, Balin chewed on it as he thought.

 

“What was ironic?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“The Dragon’s use of fire – you mentioned that it was ironic. How?”

 

Balin shifted, tapping the side of his boot with his free hand. “It happened many years ago… tied up in Erebor’s history, in fact. You see, in the Eastern seas there was the city of Dale. It was known throughout Middle-Earth –” here he paused to wink at Bilbo “– though perhaps not so amongst Hobbits.”

 

This particular Hobbit said nothing; he only rested his chin on his hand, listening attentively.

 

“The markets in Dale, oh, you’d not see their like today; full of different races and creeds, peacefully bartering and dealing with each other. Southern oils and spices, silks and woven cloth, strong coffee and sweet wine, books and scrolls in countless languages, birds and cats and other – stranger – creatures, toys and trinkets, fruit from the west so ripe they melted in your mouth, perfumes and pipe weed – well, it’s enough to say that the city was as prosperous as it was peaceful.

 

“You see, lad, Dale lay under the protection of Erebor, the greatest mountain keep there ever was on this earth. Erebor and Dale rested in the middle of busy trade routes, and so became a converging point of merchant vessels from all corners of the world. All pirates that dared attack within Erebor’s waters either chose to surrender or were sent to the bottom of the sea.”

 

Pirate… Smaug was named a pirate. Why hadn’t he been defeated like the rest?

 

“The flagship – the leading ship – of Erebor’s fleet was called the _Arkenstone_.” Balin lowered his pipe, sighing. “Clad in copper and brass with deep blue sails, ah, she was beautiful. Fastest ship in Rhovanion and the most dangerous; not only did the _Arkenstone_ boasted three full gun decks, it wielded what we call liquid fire. If a broadside didn’t send the pirates running, a burst of the fire would finish the job.

 

“So this safety and this wealth brought a myriad of people to Dale and Erebor – Dwarves, Men, the rare visit of a Wizard, and the even rarer visit of an Elf.” Before Bilbo could ask what that last was, Balin continued with a voice dark and grave, “Then, of course, came Smaug.”

 

Bilbo absently switched his flippers; every mention of the Dragon’s name sent shivers of fear running through him, though he couldn’t explain why.

 

“I was a young lad when Smaug first came, barely grown into my beard. Everyone thought that he was a merchant – until he started accusing Thrór and his family of piracy.”

 

“Who’s Thrór?”

 

A snatch of surprise flitted across Balin’s face. “He was the founder of Erebor… well I suppose he could be called its King. He was the reason Dale and Erebor were famed throughout the land – but towards the end of his rule, rumours began to spread that he was growing ever cruel and gold hungry. I cannot say whether these rumours were true, but since they only started when Smaug came along, their merit is questionable.”

 

“Smaug –” Bilbo swallowed inconspicuously. “The Dragon, did he start those rumours so people would believe that Thrór was a pirate?”

 

“Got it in one,” Balin said, nodding. “Stories went around about Thrór’s mind growing sick with greed – and about the mountains of gold he hoarded in the keep – and all this was enough for people to believe Smaug’s claims. They caught not only Thrór but the rest of his family – his son Thráin, along with Thráin’s wife and children. Their youngest was only a few years older than I was at the time.”

 

“But – surely a few stories wouldn’t have convinced them so easily!” If that was true then his father would never have married his mother, and the Bagginses would have insisted that he give up his grotto to Lobelia. How could the residents of Dale have been so fickle-minded?

 

“Ah, but Smaug also weaved promises within his stories. There were enough Men – and I daresay a few Dwarves – who were lured to his side by the promise of the gold in Erebor’s halls. Those that were not were bribed outright.” He shook his head and sighed again, this time disappointed instead of longing. “Thrór’s family – the line of Durin – they had no chance. They weren’t even granted a trial; they were all brought to the town square…”

 

Bilbo’s eyes were wide and round. He could almost guess what happened next.

 

“In front of the townspeople and in front of his whole family, Thrór was beheaded. Not by Smaug, no – he left the deed to his most fanatical supporter. Azog.”

 

Before Bilbo could ask, or even draw in a breath to ask, two hands landed on his shoulders. Startled, he yelped and jumped. The water in his tank sloshed, but didn’t spill.

 

Somehow it wasn’t surprising to see that the hands were attached to Fíli and Kíli. Bilbo had to forcibly curb the instinct to bite them while they were in range, instead concentrating on calming his heartbeat and breathing.

 

  
“Easily shocked, is our Hobbit,” Fíli remarked, grin colouring his tone.

 

“You telling him scary stories, Balin?” Not bothering to find a seat, Kíli dropped onto the floor, folding his legs so he could put his chin atop his knees. “Can we listen?”

 

“I am explaining to Master Baggins the history of Erebor and what happened there,” Balin said pointedly. At this, and under Bilbo’s amazed gaze, Fíli and Kíli grew subdued. “You two ought to listen.” Balin returned the pipe to his mouth for a few moments, waiting for Fíli to sit (he chose to perch on the edge of the shark tank), before breathing out and continuing.

 

“Azog was every bit as evil as Smaug – he was called the Pale Orc, because unlike the rest of his kin, a trick of birth left him white-skinned.”

 

“White like… sea foam?”

 

Balin nodded. “No one knows what quarrel he had with the line of Durin, only that he was more than willing to kill them all. Smaug gave him the perfect opportunity.” He paused for a moment, and in the relative silence they heard Dwalin shouting above the howling wind, ordering the sails be secured.

 

“What are Orcs?” Bilbo asked, quite forgetting to put that question on a list to be answered later.

 

“Throat-cutters,” Fíli said knowledgeably. “The South Seas are crawling with them.”

 

“They strike in the wee small hours, when most of the crew are asleep.” Kíli shuddered. “Mostly they swim to their target ship, climb aboard and kill everyone. Quick and quiet; no screams, just lots of blood.”

 

“Oh, hush, the pair of you.” Balin sounded cross, frowning when the two younger Dwarves dissolved into giggling. “There’s no call frightening Master Baggins.”

 

“Is it true, though?” Bilbo asked quietly, ignoring Fíli and Kíli (they looked slightly cowed, but only slightly). “Do Orcs do that?”

 

“They did. We’ve learned from our mistakes; Orcs very rarely catch us unawares now. But they are cruel monsters that thrive on misery and mayhem.” Balin snorted ruefully. “Perfect allies for the Dragon.”

 

“And the people of Dale did nothing? Surely they wouldn’t have stood for such a – a creature walking about their town?”

 

“Fear, lad. They were much too afraid; if they spoke up, who was to say they too wouldn’t be beheaded? As for the others, pah, they were too well-paid to care. So what if there was one Orc in their town? Soon they would be covered in gold.”

 

“Except there was no gold,” Fíli said heavily. When Bilbo whirled to face him, question on the tip of his tongue, the fair-haired Dwarf grimaced. “Smaug apparently believed the same stories he spread. Mayhap to him they weren’t stories – because he stormed the keep and tore through it looking for treasure that wasn’t there. When he realised the truth…” he trailed off, looking ill.

 

Kíli picked up the narrative. “He set fire to everything that would burn – Dale included – and fled. They finally acted then, the Men, freeing Thráin and his family… too little too late. By the time the _Arkenstone_ was ready to sail, the fires were out of control.”

 

Bilbo swallowed. He tried to imagine that level of devastation – tried to imagine the whole of Hobbiton destroyed by the whim of a madman. Those poor people; even if they’d been too scared to stand up for the wronged Dwarves, they hadn’t deserved such a fate. But what of Smaug’s fate? The fate of his supporters? “Did the Arkenstone catch the Pale Orc and the Dragon?”

 

“Not Azog. His ship was small and quick, too quick. Smaug they did draw alongside. They gave no quarter, disabling the ship before setting it aflame.” There was no relish in Balin’s voice, only defeat. “According to the tales, Smaug remained aboard the deck as his crew either died or jumped overboard. He stood tall while the flames consumed his sinking ship, laughing all the while.”

 

“But…” The Dragon was still alive – Bilbo knew this. He’d hardly have been asked on this quest if their enemy was nothing but a ghost. “How could he have survived that?”

 

“No one knows, lad. There was never a body found, and so it was assumed that he’d burned to death. Not so.” Balin tapped his pipe against the side of his boot, allowing its contents to fall to the floor. He then stowed the pipe within his well-worn clothes.

 

“He returned to Erebor thirty years later,” Fíli said. He appeared to be testing the edge of one of his (many) knives against his tunic. “By that time the Men had left, deciding to make lives for themselves elsewhere. Most efforts to rebuild Erebor met with failure, given the lack of trade. Penniless and hungry, many of our own people felt that they too should relocate, and so Thráin decided to reclaim the ancient Dwarf kingdom of Moria, captaining the _Arkenstone_ and leading what was left of the Ereborean fleet.”

 

“He left his children in charge of the Dwarves that remained. Three of them.” Balin counted them off on his fingers: “– his only daughter, Dís; the second son, Frerin; and the eldest, Thorin.”

 

Bilbo felt like he ought to have been surprised at this information – but it just seemed to make sense. He shifted away from Fíli and his knife, and asked, “Did Thráin reclaim Moria?”

 

“Only two ships from the fleet returned to Erebor,” Balin said, eyes downcast. “The survivors told tale of the massacre – the Battle of Azanulbizar, it was called. Dwalin and I lost our father, just as Thráin was assumed lost.”

 

“Assumed?”

 

“None of the Dwarves that returned from Moria knew what had happened to him. And then, only days after, the _Arkenstone_ pulled into harbour. Of course we all rejoiced – Moria may have been lost, but at least the King had survived.” Balin coughed into his beard. “Except.”

 

Bilbo’s grip on the edge of the tank had his knuckles white, claws pressing against the glass uncomfortably. “Except it was Smaug.”

 

“Aye. But Thráin _was_ there, and was still alive. Just barely.” Balin shook his head before glancing upwards. Through the wood they could hear the thudding of boots and the quieter patter of rain. “I was beside Thorin when we saw the condition Thráin was in. It was all Frerin and I could do to keep Thorin from launching off the pier.” The light from the swaying lantern cast Balin’s face half in shadow; it was difficult to read his expression. “Smaug promised to release Thráin, so long as he was given Erebor and the _Arkenstone_ in return. There was no need for negotiation. Thorin agreed straightaway.”

 

“Did… did he keep to his word? The Dragon?” Bilbo asked, hesitant. He wouldn’t put it past the pirate to double-cross the Dwarves.

 

“He did,” said Thorin.

 

Bilbo gasped, gaze snapping up to where the Captain stood just within the circle of light from the lantern. He was soaked to the bone, hair pulled off his face into a single tail. His eyes did not move from Bilbo’s face, even as he stepped forward, continuing to speak. “Though it hardly mattered whether my father was alive or no. His mind was gone. Mahal knows what torture he must have gone through. It was almost a blessing when he stopped eating. At least he died on his own terms, and by his own choice.”

 

Fíli and Kíli had rushed to their feet as soon as Thorin had started speaking; they set their shoulders when he looked at them.

 

“Kíli, you’re to mind the rigging of the mainmast. Fíli, take Dwalin’s place at the helm.” He waited for both of them to (hastily) leave before addressing Balin. “You should be resting.”

 

“I’m only answering some questions, Thorin,” Balin chided. “Master Baggins deserves to know what happened.”

 

“And has Master Baggins’ endless curiosity been sated?”

 

It took Bilbo a moment to realise that this sarcasm was directed at him. His eyes narrowed (which was a safer reaction than baring his fangs). “I have one more question,” he said, watching Thorin’s small smirk turn into a frown.

 

“And what is that?”

 

“Why did the Dragon – why did Smaug let you live?”

 

“Because he enjoys suffering, little Hobbit,” Thorin answered easily. “That’s why he enjoys fire. To him, swords and guns are too quick. He prefers fire because then he can hear his victims beg and scream.”

 

Bilbo’s cheeks flushed with shame; he wanted to look away but was caught by pale eyes.

 

“He burned my people and razed my home. He as good as killed my grandfather. He snatched the legacy of my line. And he let me live.” Thorin smiled grimly. “He will live just long enough to regret it.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Deathless_ drops anchor by a ship graveyard, her crew unaware of potential dangers lurking in the darkness...

“Drop anchor!” Dwalin called, after a brief consultation with Thorin. “These waters are too treacherous to traverse in this gloom. I don’t want to run aground.”

 

“Run aground?” Bilbo dragged himself to the side of the ship (the right side, or starboard) and squinted into the darkness. The silver clouds across the sky were doing a good job of blocking the light from the moon and stars – or at least blocking enough light that it made it difficult for Bilbo to see. It was a strange play of fate that having eyes keen enough for darkness underwater did not similarly translate to keenness in darkness above water. “Run aground where?”

 

It took him a long moment to notice that there were shapes in the water. Some clouds shifted, and Bilbo gasped. The moon- and starlight caught the edges of what looked like _hundreds_ of ships; they stretched as far as the eye could see. Some were overturned, hulls exposed to the elements while their decks were sunken. Most were damaged, even rotting, with their sails hanging in limp tatters like seaweed out of water.

 

“Who left all these ships here?” Bilbo wondered out loud. It all seemed somehow horrifying to him – even in the short time he’d been aboard _Deathless_ , he’d clearly seen the love the Dwarves had for her. This place was full of ships that had been abandoned by their crews. It felt wrong.

 

“It’s a graveyard,” said Nori, suddenly dropping down beside Bilbo and giving him a terrible shock. He seemed to enjoy doing that. “Where ships go to when they die.”

 

“They don’t really?” Bilbo asked, voice flat though unsure.

 

“They don’t really.” Nori smirked and ruffled Bilbo’s curls. “Ask me younger brother about it. He’ll have a few tales for you.” He winked, turned, and – lengths of rope held in each hand – ran _up_ the foremast.

 

Bilbo blinked and wondered if he’d just imagined that – and if that was even possible in the first place. He looked up and there Nori was, clambering about with any fear at all, securing the fore topsail. Was Nori exempt from normal rules of motion, or did he possess some sort of magic of his own?

 

Speaking of magic, it seemed that Gandalf was arguing with Thorin. (Not an unusual happenstance.) Bilbo didn’t intend to eavesdrop – it would have been the height of rudeness – but given their raised voices, it was impossible not to catch snatches of their conversation.

 

“I’ve told you already – I will not go near that place.”

 

“Why not?” Gandalf shifted. “The Elves could help us. We could get food, fresh water, repairs.”

 

Bilbo – who was _not_ eavesdropping – perked up at the mention of Elves. Was it possible that they’d be able to meet them? Perhaps they would, if Gandalf managed to convince Thorin… though that didn’t seem like a likely outcome.

 

“I do not – we do not need their _help_ ,” Thorin said cuttingly. Even though he had to look up at Gandalf’s face, he managed to give the impression of glaring down his straight nose. “I refuse to beg at the feet of those creatures.”

 

“ _Creatures_? Really, Thorin?”

 

“Elves spend as much time on land as they do in the water. It is unnatural.”

 

Gandalf sighed, glancing upwards as if asking for patience (Bilbo didn’t blame him). “Their habits are as natural as yours or mine – Elves are like frogs and toads, able to live equally well in both worlds.”

 

Thorin sneered. “That is an apt comparison.”

 

Bilbo, still very much minding his own business, frowned. That seemed unfair. What had the Elves ever done to Thorin?

 

“Reconsider, Thorin, and put your pride aside as you do. Lord Elrond could help us. He is not like the Elves you have had to deal with in the past.”

 

“That may be, but he is still an Elf. Elves do not help Dwarves – I have seen this firsthand.” Now Thorin’s gaze dropped, though his stance showed that conceding defeat was the farthest thing from his mind. “They are not beings that honour friendship. If we go to their door now, they will just betray us.”

 

Bilbo couldn’t quite see Gandalf’s expression (because he wasn’t looking in that direction at all, not at all), but he could hear his tone as he spoke in a mixture of disgust and frustration: “I did not give you that map and key so that you could hold on to the past.”

 

Quick as a flash, Thorin was back to glowering at Gandalf. “I didn’t know they were yours to keep.”

 

This appeared to be the end of their argument: Gandalf threw up his arms and stormed away angrily. For someone who looked as old as he did, the fisherman-Wizard had no trouble at all as he clambered up the shrouds and sought refuge in the crow’s nest.

 

Bilbo risked a peek at Thorin. The Captain wore contempt on his face, chin held high. He appeared to be ignoring Gandalf altogether, instead calling out orders to Glóin to go through the condition of the sails and rigging since they were not moving.

 

So the Elves – or some Elves – had been friends of Thorin’s people, and had after that ‘betrayed’ the Dwarves. Yet Gandalf seemed to think that the Elves would definitely help them. Bilbo rested his chin on the bulwark, gazing out at the myriad of whole and broken ships. Was either or both of them biased? Who was wrong and who was right?

 

Bilbo had never met an Elf before, or even seen one. He’d heard tales, from his mother and from Gandalf, painting them as mystical beings that had no fear of death from old age or disease. They were also the fairest and wisest people in Middle Earth – not that Thorin’s opinion of them suggested that.

 

Despite Gandalf’s ‘tactical retreat’, Bilbo was quite sure that his and Thorin’s ‘discussion’ was far from over. Bilbo had known for years that Gandalf was stubborn; in the time he’d been aboard _Deathless_ , he’d witnessed firsthand the equivalent stubbornness of Dwarves as a whole and the incredible obstinacy of the Captain. Thorin seemed to Bilbo to be hewn from rock; if change came, it was brought about slowly and with persistency. If Gandalf was to have his way, he would have to continuously wear Thorin’s resolve.

 

Well, either that or somehow trick him.

 

Ah, it didn’t really matter to Bilbo, one way or another. He wasn’t about to involve himself in their argument. If he was meant to meet Elves in his lifetime, he would. If he wasn’t meant to, then that was that.

 

The ships were what concerned him more at present; Bilbo took Nori’s advice and set off in search of Ori.

 

“It’s called a graveyard, right enough – cemetery would work too. I’ve never seen one this big.” Ori pushed a needle through the hammock, moving slowly so Bilbo’s eyes could follow. He was mending a rip in the canvas, sitting on the stairs between the forecastle and main deck, and was happy to talk as he worked. “I’ve heard that there’s a huge one near Mordor. There was a battle long ago, and their ships and cutters and boats were left behind to rot. According to the stories, the bodies of the sailors are there as well.”

 

Bilbo blinked. Surely he’d heard incorrectly. “Bodies?”

 

Ori nodded, serenely sewing. “You can see them as you pass, as if they’ve not aged a day; never mind they died hundreds of years before. It’s dangerous to wander about there at night because of the lights.”

 

“How can lights be dangerous?”

 

“They lead the unwary to their deaths.” Ori chuckled, then hissed when the needle jabbed his finger. He popped that finger into his mouth to reduce the sting. “Those ancient warriors lure them into the water, you see, so they can feast on live flesh.”

 

Bilbo shuddered, hugging his arms around himself. “They’re dead! They’re not supposed to lure people or, or feast on their flesh!”

 

“They’re just stories.” Ori shrugged as he tied off his sewing. It took him three tries to break the string. (Dwarvish teeth looked blunt and flat, clearly not favourable to cutting as Hobbit teeth.) “Other stories tell us that the whole graveyard is just an illusion, a spell of powerful magic designed to trick the eye. It keeps most folk out, you see, being that no one wants to scrape their hulls if they get too close.”

 

“And no one wants to be drowned and eaten by dead people,” Bilbo added, making Ori laugh.

 

“And that. Could you hold this?” Ori thrust the ship’s sewing box into Bilbo’s hands and then dropped the hammock he’d been mending. It hit the deck with a solid thump. Ori got to his knees and started rolling the canvas for storage.

 

Bilbo carefully poked through the box, only recognising about half of what was kept inside. “Why do you think these ships are here? Another battle?”

 

“I doubt it. I’d have read about it otherwise.” Ori huffed and spread the hammock out again, then started rolling it in more tightly. “We’re on the Great East Road; it’s a shipping lane favoured by merchants because it’s so safe. No, no,” he said, shaking his head, “I’m sure this was just caused by careless sailing combined with bad visibility. Poor devils couldn’t see where the waters were shallow, or any of the ships that had run aground.”

 

Hence Dwalin’s decision to drop anchor for the night. Bilbo was just glad that there wouldn’t be a threat of being eaten.

 

“Well, I’m off. Much obliged,” Ori said, collecting the box and tucking it under his arm. He had the hammock on his other shoulder. “I’m off to the galley; Bombur’s making bone soup. You coming along?”

 

Bilbo shook his head. He’d tried some of the Dwarves’ ‘bread’ and ‘meat’ – even sampled ‘cram’, which was dry and terrible and not filling at all, despite what Bofur said – and had found their food lacking. They used fire to ‘cook’ their food (soup was a liquid preparation in a pot) and this just robbed the natural flavours. Perhaps land dwellers just had poorer senses of taste.

 

Intent on looking out at the graveyard for a while longer before retiring to his tank, Bilbo was surprised to hear his name being called. Fíli and Kíli waved him over to where they were, busy unhitching the jolly boat from its secure position.

 

“What are you up to?”

 

“Mister Baggins.” Kíli’s smile was bright and wide. “Would you like to accompany us two?”

 

Bilbo cautiously returned the smile, casting a wary eye over the contents of the boat. Aside from the oars, Fíli and Kíli had stowed a net, a bucket, and their weapons. Harmless enough. “Accompany you where, lads?”

 

“We’re off to explore! Thought you’d like a swim. You know, since we’re anchored for the night, and since we’re taking a boat down.”

 

“Oh.” Pleased, Bilbo let his smile widen into sincerity. “That’s very thoughtful,” he said, causing Kíli to nudge Fíli with his elbow.

 

“Not very often we’re called thoughtful, eh, brother?” He ducked to avoid Fíli’s swat. “I think I like it.”

 

Looking back on it, that probably should have been more apparent a warning.

 

With only his head and hands above the surface, Bilbo tried to breathe as shallowly as he could. It took effort to keep his flippers still, and more effort to not just throw himself underwater and swim back to _Deathless_. He thought if he stayed as still and as quiet as possible, he wouldn’t end up as food for the monsters that lay ahead.

 

Fíli and Kíli had called them ‘Trolls’. Bilbo had never heard of such creatures, just as he’d never seen beings that _huge_. There were three of them, all covered in scales like a fish with bare patches of sickly pale skin. Their gills flexed and bowed as they breathed. They didn’t half make Bilbo queasy, but he wasn’t sure if watching the clumsy motion of their multiple arms was any better.

 

He did know that he preferred it to looking at those yellow teeth, thin as matches and sharp as knives. His gaze unerringly returned to their mouths though, especially given that the three Trolls were in a deep and detailed discussion about their dinner.

 

Bilbo swallowed. Fíli and Kíli – those two _idiots_ , he was going to have cross words with them if he survived this – had asked him to serve as a diversion while they went to fetch the rest of the crew. His role would be to make sure the Trolls didn’t suspect an attack – but he couldn’t come up with any plan to achieve this. He could only see himself being stuffed into the same pot the Trolls were using to cook.

 

The three of them were clustered around the fire, on an island that was barely big enough to fit them and it. Bilbo hid behind an overturned sloop, observing them through the small gap between the wreckage and the water’s surface. Thoughts raced through his mind like a school of herring; Fíli and Kíli and perhaps the other Dwarves were depending on him to distract the Trolls. He set his jaw.

 

“What’s in the pot?”

 

The Trolls startled. They looked about wildly for the source of the unknown (to them) voice. One growled, one gibbered, and on asked, “Who’s there?”

 

Bilbo took a breath, hands braced on rotting wood, and hoped they were as stupid as Fíli had claimed. “Nothing to worry about!” he called, keeping out of sight. “It’s just me!”

 

“‘Me’ who?”

 

“Nobody!”

 

The gibbering Troll calmed a little. “I thought it was a scary monster,” he said – which rather threw Bilbo for a loop. What things could Trolls possibly be afraid of? “‘Ello there, Nobody,” the Troll continued, “me name’s William, this here’s Bert and Tom.” His maw was open in a tooth-filled smile.

 

This was wiped off his face when the cook – Bert – thwacked him with his ladle. “Shut up!” he ordered over William’s squeal of pain. “‘Ere –” he turned, squinting into the gloom (and thankfully not catching sight of Bilbo). “What are you? What d’you want?”

 

Bilbo had already prepared an answer: “I’m an invisible sea spirit. I was just passing by, you see… then I saw the pot. What’s for eating?”

 

“Indivisible?” asked Tom, looking personally offended by the word. “What does invivisible mean?”

 

“I, uh… can’t be seen,” Bilbo helpfully explained, feeling like he was stuck in a surreal situation – one he wanted to be saved from. Just _where_ were the lads? Surely it didn’t take this long to get back to the ship, get the crew, and return here. Were they sightseeing?

 

“Oh.” Bert shrugged, returning to the divot in the sand that was his seat. “It’s seahorse. West nags, to be exact.”

 

Since no one was paying attention to his whines and whimpering, William sat up, scratching his one of his arms. As he did, whole scales sloughed off; Bilbo watched with a sick fascination as more and more grey skin was exposed.

 

“I don’t like sea’orse,” William griped; he used one set of arms to hug himself, the other continued scratching. “Never ‘ave. Not enough fat on them.”

 

“Better than them giant crabs,” said Bert. He held a ladle-ful of seahorse stew up to his nose, sniffing noisily. “All shells and claws they were. Still picking bits of them out of me gills.”

 

“‘Ere,” Tom said, “D’you smell Dwarf?”

 

Bilbo started.

 

“Don’t talk about that’,” William complained, one hand now moving to rub his semi-scaled belly. “I’m hungry enough as it is! Now I can only think of lovely, crunchable –”

 

“I’m sure of it,” Tom snarled, lumbering to his feet. He splashed into the water, nose upturned. “I know tha’ smell, I know it well. We ought to check!”

 

“I’m halfway done with me cooking.” Bert hadn’t looked up from the seahorse soup. It bubbled and glooped in an entirely unappetizing fashion. “The Dwarves can wait.”

 

All four of Tom’s hands clenched. “By the time you’re finished the sun will have risen – and before we can get back under the water.”

 

Bilbo’s ears twitched; what was this now? “What happens when the sun rises?” he asked, hoping that Tom would be sidetracked by the question instead of going further into the water (and then discovering Bilbo). “Is it something bad?”

 

“Ah, don’t you know, Nobody? We turn to stone.” Bert shook his head. “Sink right to the bottom o’ the sea, we do.”

 

“Well I don’t fancy it,” said Tom, scowling widely enough that Bilbo could see all his teeth that had broken or splintered, as well as the bits of food shards of shells wedged between them. “We ought to get to moving.”

 

William jumped up excitedly, waving his arms. “I know! Bert can stay and cook while we two go lookin’ for Tom’s Dwarves. And Nodoby can help!”

 

Tom swivelled around, sending ripples across the water. He and Bert stared at William as if he’d grown an extra head. William, the smallest of the three Trolls, stared back, wringing his hands (and losing more scales in the process). “What?”

 

“You actually said something sensible,” said Bert. “It’s a miracle, I tell ya’.”

 

“More likely of a miracle than your cooking bein’ any good,” Tom retorted, guffawing when Bert growled under his breath. He waved William over as he waded through the water. “Come on then, we’ll go find the Dwarves. Then for once we’ll be able to eat well –”

 

“No!” Bilbo cried, unable to keep the alarm from his voice. “You can’t!”

 

“Can’t?” Tom’s face creased in a massive frown. He was already waist-deep in the water, and even though he’d stopped advancing he was that much closer to the crew – that much closer to Bilbo. “Can’t what why?”

 

Bilbo swallowed. “Can’t – can’t go looking! I – I came from over there; I definitely didn’t see any Dwarves anywhere. No Dwarves at all. Not a single one. None. I promise.”

 

Oh, curse it all, where were those blasted Dwarves? Surely Fíli and Kíli wouldn’t take this much time explaining the situation. Had they all stumbled on some other foe? Had someone fallen into the water on the way here? Had they decided to cut their losses and leave Bilbo?

 

…no. They wouldn’t abandon him. Gandalf wouldn’t have let them.

 

Though – that really depended on whether Gandalf was aware of Bilbo’s absence. He’d been up in the crow’s nest when Fíli and Kíli had lured Bilbo away, so he mightn’t know where Bilbo was as well. Maybe he should make his way to _Deathless_ ; even if they hadn’t chose to leave him behind, he could just warn them that two Trolls were approaching –

 

Unwisely lost in his thoughts, Bilbo shrieked when one of those Trolls grabbed him around the middle.

 

“So you’re Nobody.” Tom didn’t flinch at all when Bilbo clawed him; his scales seemed less likely to shed compared to William’s. He lifted Bilbo to eye level – which was much too high for poor Bilbo, who was now discovering that he wasn’t at all fond of heights – and squinted at him. “I can see ya just fine.”

 

“Is that what a Nobody looks like?” William asked, poking Bilbo in the side and jumping back when this made him squeak.

 

“Nah,” said Bert, “that’s a penguin, that is.”

 

Even through his terror, Bilbo found it within himself to exclaim, “ _Penguin_?”

 

William looked as confused as Bilbo was incredulous. “What’s a penguin, then?”

 

“Animal. Small and fat.” Tom twisted Bilbo this way and that (Bilbo tried to fight both his nausea and his indignation). “Though this one’s no’ black and white, he’s all brown and spotty.” He frowned. “Can we cook ‘im?”

 

“We can try!”

 

Bert snorted. “He wouldn’t make more than a mouthful – not when he’s skinned and boned. Stick ‘im in the pot, he’ll go well with the seahorses.”

 

Fortunately for Bilbo’s dignity, he was spared any more affront when Kíli thudded along the bowsprit of (half) a ship, executing a neat jump that had him sailing through the air. He landed, water spraying everywhere, lashing out with his sword and making William squeal and fall.

 

“Drop him!”

 

Bilbo thought there was too much glee in Kíli’s face and tone – he was alone and facing three Trolls with only one weapon in hand – but he was thankful that he wasn’t in immediate danger of being part of the soup. He rescinded this opinion when Tom’s grip unconsciously tightened in anger.

 

“You what?” he demanded, taking a threatening step forward.

 

Kíli’s grin only widened. “I said: drop him.”

 

This was apparently some sort of pre-agreed signal, because what looked like most of the crew charged out of their hiding places and at the Dwarves. The fight that followed was a mess of weapons and scales and yelling – in other words, a perfect example of poor Dwarvish planning. Bilbo would have despaired, but he was too busy, first having been thrown _at_ Kíli, and then avoiding feet and boots and weapons and hands. He tried to help where he could by pushing Dwarves out of the way of injury.

 

In the confusion of hacking, slashing, hammering, and hitting, someone upset the Trolls’ pot. This seemed to enrage Bert – likely because he’d spent a lot of time preparing their dinner – and Bilbo found himself again borne aloft. His mind was decidedly occupied by fervent wishing that he’d not be killed.

 

The Dwarves ( _thankfully_ ) stopped fighting once they saw Bilbo being dangled over them. Thorin threw his arm across Kíli’s chest, preventing him from running forward. The Captain himself took a step closer to the Trolls, his eyes locked on Bilbo’s face.

 

“Throw down your arms!” Tom demanded. He held Bilbo’s right arm, while Bert held the other and Bilbo’s tail. “Or we’ll rip his off!”

 

Bilbo could almost see the thoughts running through Thorin’s mind though his face remained thunderous. He was weighing his options; whether they’d be able to return to the Shire to find another pathfinder, or whether they could do without one altogether. Thorin had after all never made his dislike of Bilbo a secret – he could make a plan now to leave Bilbo with the Trolls in exchange for safe passage. It’d be like finding two pearls in one oyster.

 

Deciding to act before Thorin – or any of the Dwarves – did anything (more) stupid, Bilbo turned his head and buried his fangs into Bert’s hand, where some scales had fallen away to reveal soft, vulnerable skin.

 

The howl from the Troll was immense – Bilbo would have covered his ears if he’d been able to. As it stood, Bilbo only tightened his jaw grimly, holding on for dear life as he was swung about. The world was a blur of light and noise, and then the feeling of flying –

 

Then there was a brief burst of pain.

 

Then darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin 'apologises'. Gandalf 'tells the truth'.

He wasn’t dead.

 

This realisation was coupled with no small amount of surprise and relief. Bilbo attempted to express this with a smile, but found that his whole body hurt too much. He couldn’t even open his eyes – or, at least, not without an accompanying world of pain.

 

He must have made some sort of sound, or someone had been watching him for signs of wakefulness, because a voice washed over him. Bofur’s voice, quiet and soothing. “You’re safe.” He patted Bilbo’s shoulder – though to Bilbo this felt like a light pummelling. “We’re all back on _Deathless_.”

 

Moving with deliberate slowness, Bilbo moistened his lips. “W’happened?” he asked.

 

Bofur obligingly told tale of how the injury Bilbo had inflicted had been an excellent distraction. The Troll that he’d bitten – Bert – had swung him about, hollering and yowling. The Dwarves and the two other Trolls had stood staring, unsure of how to help, and that was enough of a distraction for Gandalf to sneak up on them all and essentially save them.

 

“He used his magic,” Bofur said. Bilbo’s eyes were open by now, and he watched as Bofur used a knife to shape a piece of wood. “Broke a sloop right in half so that the sunlight wasn’t blocked.” He shook his head, the woolly flaps of his hat flapping this way and that. “Lucky you’d been captured so close to dawn.”

 

“Yes,” Bilbo said slowly, staring down at his slightly blurry hands. He was in his tank; the Dwarves had removed enough water that it only reached halfway up. The reasoning was that they didn’t want him to slip beneath the surface and be unable to breathe, while at the same time worrying that he’d dry out. (Most of the Dwarves, as Bofur had reported, had apparently held the opinion that Hobbits would die if completely dry. Fíli and Kíli, on the other flipper, had thought Bilbo would grow legs. They were all entirely silly.) “Did they turn into stone?”

 

The motion of Bofur’s small knife stopped, and he stared with wide eyes, the brown gone bright with surprise. “How’d you know that? You’d gone and bashed your head.”

 

Ignoring this – _he_ ’d not bashed his head, that had been the Troll’s fault – Bilbo cupped seawater in his hands and wet his face. “It was… mentioned.” He didn’t elaborate further, and was saved from having to answer any more questions (he’d heard Bofur drawing in a breath to speak) when someone walked down the stairs from the deck.

 

“Is the Hobbit awake?”

 

Bilbo looked up. Water slid down his face and dripped off his chin, falling softly into the tank. “I am awake, yes,” he said, more than capable to answer for himself. He made sure his sneer pulled his lips away from his sharp teeth.

 

Thorin, who’d by now stopped by the tank, was unmoved. He glanced at Bofur. “Leave us.”

 

“Aye aye, Cap’n.” He stowed his knife and wooden carving as he rushed to his feet. He then left, though not before sending a glance in Bilbo’s direction, brows creased and mouth worried. Bilbo wasn’t sure if he should have felt concerned himself.

 

Thorin sat on the crate Bofur had vacated. He considered Bilbo in silence, and Bilbo noted that there was a healing cut on Thorin’s cheek, just under one sea-flower blue eye. He must have received it during the fight with the Trolls, but this realisation did not garner enough sympathy from Bilbo for him to stop baring his teeth.

 

“You were caught by Trolls.”

 

This statement was entirely idiotic and undeserving of a reply; Bilbo continued watching Thorin and was surprised when the Captain looked away first.

 

“Rather, you were caught by Trolls because of my fool nephews.”

 

_Nephews? Who –?_

 

Bilbo’s elbow, resting on the edge of the tank, slipped. Fíli and Kíli were Thorin’s _nephews_? He’d noticed some resemblance before, yes, but the differences had far outweighed those. They clearly did not take after their uncle in behaviour and temperament, that much was clear.

 

“They’re not fools,” Bilbo said finally, flexing his flippers and almost groaning at the exquisite pain of it. He’d no idea why his tail was so sore when it was his head that had been ‘bashed’. “They came up with a plan and it worked.” More or less. “In any case, the Trolls caught your scent – I suppose thanks to Fíli and Kíli, you all weren’t caught out.”

 

“Even so, you are not trained to fight. They should not have put you in danger.”

 

Bilbo suspected that this declaration was made more out of annoyance towards Fíli and Kíli, rather than concern over his safety, but even with this knowledge he felt a flush heat his cheeks. “It’s fine.”

 

“It is not.” Thorin put his hand up, stemming any protest. When he returned it to its position on his knee, Bilbo could see that the skin on his knuckles was scraped raw. His ring remained, however. “But you cannot see things as we do, inexperienced as you are to the ways of the world.” He paused, apparently oblivious to the insult he’d offered – or uncaring. “I should thank you.”

 

He boggled. Thank him? “Whatever for?”

 

“You put yourself in the way of death so we were not – as you say – ‘caught out’.” He held Bilbo’s startled gaze. “Thank you.”

 

Bilbo barely had time to process this before Thorin rose to his feet, clearly intent on leaving. The water in the tank sloshed against the sides when he sat up straighter. Quickly, he asked, “Could I – could you answer a question I have?”

 

It was surprising that Thorin stopped and waited – though not as surprising as his vocally expressed and seemingly genuine gratitude –, standing with his hands behind his back and his eyebrows quirked.

 

Unsure whether he should be emboldened or troubled by this response, Bilbo nonetheless persisted. His hands were clenched, claws digging into his palms. “…why do you dislike me?”

 

He regretted the question as soon as he asked it; Thorin’s eyebrows dropped into a frown (he was good at that) and his posture stiffened. That slight movement somehow amplified the already apparent height difference between them, making Bilbo feel small and insignificant within his tank of sea water.

 

Finally, Thorin turned away. “I do not dislike you.”

 

Having steeled himself for a cutting dismissal, it took a moment for Bilbo to register what he’d heard and then another moment for him to process it. Shame filtered in, staining his cheeks a darker shade of pink. He’d unfairly thought of Thorin as unfriendly and stubborn, when he himself hadn’t bothered to get to know the Captain. He’d just assumed that Thorin had maintained the same poor opinion of Bilbo from their first meeting and now he was proven wrong –

 

Already halfway up the stairs, Thorin’s next muttered words should have been inaudible, but somehow carried to pointed ears: “I merely think you’re not useful.”

 

Bilbo pursed his lips and rescinded his shame. He may have been wrong about Fíli and Kíli relationship to Thorin, but he’d been right about one thing: Captain Thorin Oakenshield was a huge, insufferable –

 

* * *

 

 _Crab_ , Bilbo mused. Yes. He’d rather gobble one of those down than the ‘beans’ that Ori had kindly brought to him.

 

Still, it had been food, and he had more than enough energy to make his way onto the deck, squinting in the sunlight. Dwarves called out greetings or waved or did nothing according to their characters. Bilbo noted that Thorin ignored his presence – he returned the favour.

 

He warmed in the late afternoon sun, gazing over the bulwark at the sea. The frothy waves looked like reflections of the clouds in the sky, the sun turned into a dazzling stretch of white on the water’s surface. The wind caught Bilbo’s hair; he turned to get the curls off his face and saw –

 

Reaching out, Bilbo snagged Ori as he walked past. There was a momentary muddle when his claws caught in Ori’s mittens, but they managed to sort it out so Bilbo could ask, “Why is there a ship following us?”

 

“Following –?”Alarm flashed across Ori’s sun-browned face; it cleared when he glanced at the vessel that had caught Bilbo’s attention. “Oh – her name’s _Orcrist_. We found her in the graveyard where the Trolls were. Isn’t she sleek?”

 

It certainly cut through the water easily. Bilbo saw that a length of rope stretched between _Orcrist_ and _Deathless_. Ori explained that it was there so they could tow the smaller ship – a schooner, he said – behind them.

 

“Is there a reason why we’d need two ships?”

 

Ori shrugged a shoulder. “The Captain found it after Gandalf saved us. It’s in good condition. He said it’d be a waste to leave it there to rot, and put it to vote. Most of the crew agreed.”

 

“Yourself included?” Bilbo asked.

 

“Could come in useful.” He tugged on a loose thread in his mittens; they were worn and well-loved, the purple turned gray with time and weather. “For parts when we need repairing, or to sell when we need gold. Or we could sail it; it’s nimble and fast, more than this ship.”

 

Bilbo would have continued asking questions, but a shadow fell over him. He turned and almost yelped – he’d never seen this person before, dressed in ragged brown clothes and an equally ragged hat. It was pointed, like Gandalf’s. “Who are you?”

 

The stranger didn’t answer, not in words, at any rate. Instead he reached into the folds of his cloak, pulled out two closed oysters, and pushed them into Bilbo’s hands. He then darted a jittery smile at Bilbo and Ori, before scuttling across the deck to stand by Gandalf’s side at the fore of the ship.

 

Bilbo blinked. “Who was that?” he asked, hoping for an answer.

 

“His name’s Radagast,” said Bofur, as he passed. “Queer fellow.”

 

“Radagast… the Brown?” Bilbo took Ori’s surprised look as confirmation; it hadn’t been that much of a stretch, to be honest. Gandalf and Radagast shared more similarities than their hats and their penchant for dressing in a single colour. Still… he looked down at the oysters in his hands. It was entirely possible that Radagast could be stranger than Gandalf.

 

He held out an oyster. “Would you like one?”

 

At least this was a food that Hobbits and land dwellers ate similarly. Ori could not pry it open with his own fingers, needing a knife instead, but he could not be faulted for lacking claws.

 

The oyster meat was sweet and bouncily yielding; Bilbo made a mental note to thank Radagast, no matter how odd he seemed to be. He cast a glance at the (he presumed) Wizard, who appeared to be hiding a crab beneath his hat. It was a wonder he didn’t get pinched for his trouble as many a Hobbitling had in their youth – yes, Bilbo included.

 

He put one half of the shell into his mouth and crunched down.

 

Ori jumped. “What – what are you doing?”

 

Bilbo raised his eyebrows as he chewed. Surely it was obvious. “I’m eating,” he said as soon as he’d swallowed, “same as you are.”

 

“But you can’t…” Ori’s mouth worked for a moment as he collected his thoughts. “The shells aren’t edible.”

 

“They are to Hobbits,” Bilbo replied smartly, and then held out a hand. “Can I have yours?”

 

Bilbo was left alone with his snack and he decided to go to the stern of _Deathless_ so he could watch the water as he ate (and so that he’d not catch any strange looks or questions from the Dwarves). The wave pattern the ship left behind as it sailed on was called its ‘wake’. Bilbo wondered how far the trail went before dissipating into the normal ocean surface; it would likely depend on the choppiness of the water and the strength of the wind.

 

Improbable as it was, if Bilbo ever fell off the ship, at least there was a possibility of following the wake until he’d found it again.

 

“Are you sure?” Thorin’s sharp tone broke across the rapidly cooling air.

 

“That ship’s been following us since morning – but I’m sure I’ve seen those colours before we picked up Bilbo.” Kíli bit his lip.

 

“I can vouch for this, Captain.” Fíli put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “It’s not a coincidence.”

 

Thorin – doubtlessly after much experience in seeing truth and lies in his nephews’ faces – took only a moment before nodding. “Fetch Gandalf,” he ordered Kíli, who scampered away on light feet. “Use my eyeglass, Fíli, and tell me what you can see of the prow.”

 

Obediently holding the eyeglass up and peering through it, Fíli eventually shook his head. “I can’t be certain. They’re still too far away.”

 

“Either a blessing or a curse,” Thorin said in a low voice, one fist clenched at his side and the other on the hilt of his sword. “The wind is getting choppy; let’s hope to outrun them instead of being caught up.”

 

“Do you know who they are?” Bilbo asked.

 

“With those colours there is only one likelihood,” Thorin answered automatically, as if unaware that Bilbo had posed the question. His eyes strained towards the ship in the horizon as the wind made his braids sway. “You may call them spies or pirates… but the truth of it is that they are Orcs.”

 

Fíli collapsed the eyeglass with a _click_ and tapped one end against his knuckles. “Do we have a plan?”

 

“We are being hunted.” As if he’d been eavesdropping for the perfect moment to appear, Gandalf stepped forward. Radagast was by his side (at some point having gained a sea star on his shoulder). “As Thorin says, outrun them. It’s our best course of action.” He steadied his hat with a hand. “Since the wind is in our favour for now.”

 

Radagast wet a finger and held it up, gazing at the deep blue ensign flown at the stern of _Deathless_ , fluttering and folding and flapping. “Fog is coming. That will help you.”

 

“I would suggest cutting _Orcrist_ loose,” Gandalf continued.

 

Thorin balked. “That would almost be as bad as leaving a trail behind us. Besides which, we cast a vote to keep that schooner – not abandon it as flotsam.”

 

Radagast broke in gently before an argument could begin. “I’ll take the small ship and draw them off.”

 

Everyone stared. Gandalf snorted. “These are Gundabad Orcs. Not only will they outgun you, they will outrun you.”

 

“Wise as you are, Olórin, these are my waters.” Radagast grinned. “I’d like to see them try.”

 

* * *

 

Radagast was right. Bilbo suspected that magic was at play when _Orcrist_ whooshed off – faster than expected considering that he was sailing perpendicular to the blowing wind, remarked Dwalin. But the Orcs (if they were indeed Orcs) could be seen turning to follow the schooner, probably helped by Thorin’s order to douse all lamps on _Deathless_ when Radagast had finished lighting the ones on _Orcrist_.

 

At least, that had been before the fog had descended in earnest (also as Radagast had predicted). To Bilbo it was like the clouds had fallen from the sky, shrouding them from view – and shrouding everything else from their view. It was like being surrounded by squid ink; except with painful whiteness instead of the soon-dissipated black.

 

“We need to light the way,” Dori grumbled, voice carrying in the eerie silence aboard the ship. “Or stop before we run into something.”

 

“There is no need for that, Master Dwarf,” Gandalf called from his position by Dwalin. “I can see well enough.”

 

Dori crossed his muscled arms over his chest, turning so he could glare up from the main deck. “Here, Mister Gandalf, couldn’t you get rid of this murkiness?”

 

“And leave the ship without cover?” His severe eyebrows lifted high enough that they were hidden under the brim of his hat. “Anyway: no! This fog has descended, and it will continue to swathe us until it decides to roll away. I cannot change the weather – if you wish to do so you will need another Wizard.”

 

“Are there others?” Bilbo piped up.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Other Wizards – besides you and Mister Radagast.”

 

“There are five.” Gandalf described the other three – one was Saruman the White, and the remaining two were Blueses, Alatar and Pallando. At the same time he gave directions to Dwalin – “Port, five degrees rudder” or “starboard, standard rudder” – though it was a mystery to everyone else how he knew how to adjust the course.

 

Bilbo lapsed into silence to think on the new information he’d been given, and this gave Thorin a chance to suspiciously demand, “Where are you leading us?”

 

Gandalf glanced at Thorin but did not answer; the Captain puffed up to demand one but was interrupted by a cry.

 

“Hard starboard!” Nori was staring straight ahead, face pale with terror. Gasps and shouts sounded amongst the crew as they all saw as he did: a massive rock face loomed out of the fog, and they were sailing right for it. “Hard starboard, _now_!”

 

Gandalf held firm, however – literally, given that he was now holding the wheel so Dwalin couldn’t turn it. Glares from both quartermaster and Captain did not intimidate Gandalf. “You must trust me; I know what I’m doing.”

 

Even Bilbo held his breath as they sailed closer to what seemed like certain death, the uneven wall giving the impression that it was growing larger and larger. The black stone was turned grey in the fog, looking unforgivingly jagged and incredibly solid, until –

 

Everyone – except Gandalf, and probably Thorin – heaved a sigh of relief. What had looked like shadows in a craggy cliff had turned out to be a passageway. It was only just big enough widthways and heightwise; Bilbo swallowed in the gloom of the tunnel, wondering how Gandalf had remained so unruffled and confident that they’d not collide into anything.

 

There was no fog inside the tunnel – or it had dissipated already – and the only light was a small circle that marked their exit. Mutters started amongst the crew; speculating whether the walls would cinch them in the tunnel, or whether their enemy would be waiting for them to exit. Most wondered ‘what Gandalf’s playing at’ and if they were being ‘lead to death’ – none cared if Gandalf heard. Gandalf made no reaction.

 

Thorin, when Bilbo chanced a look at him, was glaring at the fore of the ship. The corners of his mouth were downturned, scowl not quite hidden in his beard. He appeared to be heavily suspicious of where they were headed – or suspicious of Gandalf’s motives – but did not voice his concerns like his crew. He seemed satisfied with waiting.

 

It didn’t take long. The walls on either side of them widened, separating into two separate cliffs, and they emerged into muted sunlight. The air was clear and crisp. Bilbo breathed in deeply, fear and tension draining away until he’d relaxed from head to tail.

 

The cliffs stretched on and enclosed the place, sheer drops of dark rock accentuated with lighter streaks. The flat land it surrounded was mostly lush greenery and the rest was blue, blue water, clear enough that Bilbo could see all the way to the bottom. He hoped he’d be allowed to swim in it, just to touch the smooth rocks at the bed and see how much deeper the water was than it looked.

 

The Dwarves did not seem as taken by the surroundings as Bilbo was; most muttered indistinguishably to each other with dark looks on their faces. Thorin’s scowl had deepened and he wore open contempt on his face, as if he’d expected this to happen.

 

“The Valley of Imladris,” Gandalf announced, throwing out an arm to gesture at their destination. There was pride in his voice and no small amount of relief. “Here lies the last Homely House in the East Seas.”

 

Bilbo turned back to the valley, now able to pick out rills and rivulets that entwined and broke apart before emptying into the larger body of water _Deathless_ currently sailed in. Of course he knew this place – he’d been told stories of its wonder and beauty, had tried and failed to imagine this sanctuary of peace and learning, this home of Elves.

 

Rivendell.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo learns about Elves and their freshwater home - but when they have to leave Rivendell early, the mysterious white ship is waiting for them...

The Elves were not what Bilbo had expected.

 

They were old not in face but in bearing, brows smooth and unwearied. They had no hair but had pointed ears more slender and delicate-looking than Bilbo’s own. Every movement was made with grace he’d only seen in the most agile of fish, and the cloth that wrapped around their bodies accordingly rippled like water.

 

The Dwarves did not enjoy the company of the Elves – so Thorin’s attitude was the norm, and not unique to him – and the Elves seemed not to care for the Dwarves’ at all. It was only by the grace of their Lord (Elrond) and their friendliness with Gandalf – and the mutual hate of Orcs – that had them agreeing to temporarily house the crew.

 

Bilbo was fascinated by the Elves, and they by him – though their interest was less outwardly evident. They preferred not to live in such salty water as the Hobbits did and knew next to nothing about Bilbo’s people; what they did know, like the Dwarves, they’d only heard from stories. He was happy to flesh out those stories with facts as they taught him more about themselves… and it had to be admitted that they were more willing to part with such information than the Dwarves.

 

One Elf – Lindir – even invited Bilbo to tour the underwater area of Rivendell where tree roots had been shaped into homes and gathering places. It was understandably inaccessible to the non-Elf visitors that had come before, but the only trouble Bilbo had was limiting his time there, since the lack of salt in the water irritated his skin.

 

Otherwise, the water was lovely and sparklingly clear. Bilbo marvelled at the way the edges of trees and clouds were as crisp and smooth as the edges of the pebbles lining the bottom of the rivers. Occasionally, one of these gray pebbles turned out to be a hidden flatfish, but more eye-catching were the ones that came in all sorts of dazzling colours, striped and spotted, swimming past or keeping their distance.

 

At one point a small school of particularly mirror-bright fish had curiously approached Bilbo, tickling him with their tails and fins, and he was charmed enough that he didn’t even snap any up to taste.

 

Night had fallen on the fourth day of their stay. Bilbo was seated by a river’s bank, dangling his flippers in its warmth. Covered in thick fur as it was, his tail was not as easily affected by the fresh water as his skin, so there was little risk in a brief soaking. The shark bite was completely healed by now, and in the moonlight Bilbo reflected that he’d been lucky not to accrue more than a few bruises from his ordeals so far.

 

An image of needle-thin teeth set in a gaping maw darted through Bilbo’s mind, and he shuddered.

 

Yes, he’d been very lucky indeed. He doubted that many in Hobbiton would believe that he’d escaped being eaten by Trolls, or even that such creatures existed, but he would always know the truth of it. If nothing else the tale would likely entertain Primula, though Bilbo would have to make sure to leave out the more frightening bits.

 

 

What frightened him was the fact that there was no doubt more to come – more danger, more deadly situations, more monsters. Rather, he thought that he _should_ be frightened. The truth was that Bilbo felt expectant, even eager. Resting in Rivendell was a welcome respite, but he looked forward to continuing on.

 

“Never thought that would happen,” he mused, shaking his head and leaning back on his palms. His adventure – adventure! – had already made him stronger and more knowledgeable, if a little battered – and they were still far from their destination. There were many places to discover and many people to meet, and he could hardly wait.

 

Bilbo cupped his flippers before flicking them, spraying water here and there. He wasn’t privy to the meetings between Lord Elrond and Captain Oakenshield – being neither Balin nor Gandalf – and when he asked Bofur about it, he’d been told they were negotiating repairs and cartography information. Bilbo just hoped that their discussions would conclude soon so they could return to open waters. Being away from the sea for so long made him uneasy.

 

Uneasy or no, Bilbo could appreciate the beauty of Rivendell. In the depths of the river he was seated by, and the other rivers of the valley, there were balls of light. These were not menacing like Ori’s tales of ship graveyards and their vengeful ghosts. Lindir had shown him the luminescent fish that were kept in glass lanterns – and they swam into these freely when darkness fell in exchange for food. (For this reason Bilbo had not eaten any of them either.)

 

“You can no more forbid them than I – and I would not waste my time flapping my mouth uselessly.”

 

Bilbo whirled around, catching sight of Gandalf. He was walking along a path and speaking with Lord Elrond, for some reason choosing not to speak in Elvish (which was flowing and quietly powerful where the Dwarves’ language was commanding and consonant-filled). Instead they used Common, which Bilbo could understand, no matter how much he wished he could not. Neither Elf nor Wizard had noticed him, hidden as he was by a large tree, and he did not want to eavesdrop.

 

“There is a strain of madness in that family, Gandalf.” Lord Elrond stalked forward, wet cloth clinging to his angular frame. “You must be careful and vigilant with Thorin Oakenshield.”

 

 _Madness_? Thorin was mad in the sense that he seemed constantly vexed, but he did not seem insane. Bilbo frowned. And if madness was ‘in the family’, as Lord Elrond said, wouldn’t Fíli and Kíli be included? The lads were exuberant and excitable, but that was their youthful nature. Wise as the Elf was, it was possible that he was mistaken – he hardly knew the Dwarves he was speaking of.

 

“He is determined to reclaim his homeland,” Gandalf defended, and Bilbo’s heart rose. “And while I believe Thorin Oakenshield feels he is not answerable to anyone, that does not suggest madness.”

 

“I hope you are right, old friend.” Lord Elrond gracefully draped a swathe of sea-green cloth over his shoulder. He continued speaking, words growing steadily indistinct as he and Gandalf walked further away.

 

Bilbo, thinking that his presence had gone unnoticed, blushed heavily when Gandalf turned, met his gaze, and winked.

 

-

 

When Bilbo returned to the crew’s camp, he went to sleep without suspicion or inkling that anything was out of the ordinary. Without a tank of water to submerge himself in, Bilbo made do with a ‘bed’ of wet cloth, burrowing and shifting until he was comfortable enough to ignore the snoring.

 

On this night, Glóin and Bombur seemed to be having a competition – even if only Bilbo was awake to judge them. It took Bilbo a very long while to figure out that he could fold some cloth over his head – loosely, not to suffocate himself – and it would magically manage to muffle the noise.

 

It felt like only seconds after that that he was being shaken awake.

 

He stared up at Bofur, cross-eyed. The Dwarf was patient and still, making it easier for Bilbo’s gaze to focus, taking in his hat, his overshirt, his smile, his bag. His bag?

 

“We’re leaving,” Bofur explained, voice quiet as the other Dwarves were quiet, packing their own items, stuffing leftover food away. “Swiftly now, Bilbo, up you get.”

 

“But –” He looked around again; Thorin was the tallest person there, overseeing the crew. Where was Gandalf? “We’re leaving without –”

 

“Aye. We have to.” Despite his confident tone, Bofur looked unsure just as Bilbo was unsure. Why would they _have_ to leave Gandalf behind? They needed him, experience was very clear about that. “He sent a message to Thorin last night; if he wasn’t back before dawn, we’re to cast off.”

 

“And if we don’t?”

 

“If we don’t, the Elves… they don’t want us going back to Erebor. They will keep us here; politely, yeah, with food and water and all the comforts we desire – but all we’ve done so far would have been for naught. The quest would be over.”

They left Rivendell in the small hours of the morning, quickly and quietly. No one stopped them, and soon enough the crew were blinking in sunlight as the sea spray splashed onto their faces. Little did they know that while they had escaped with no difficulty, trouble was looming ahead.

 

It was just on the horizon, in fact.

 

-

 

“Ship off the port bow!” Nori called loudly. He had a hand held to his forehead, blocking the last rays of sun from shining into his eyes. “Wolf figurehead!”

 

Thorin, who’d whipped out his eyeglass as soon as he’d heard the warning, lowered it. A heavy scowl had settled over his countenance. “Azog.”

 

“Azog?” Bilbo swallowed. The ship approaching them was white (though half of it was turned orange in the sunset). He couldn’t quite make out the figurehead from this distance, wolf or otherwise. “Not the pirate?”

 

“Yes, the pirate,” Thorin responded curtly, drawing his sword out of its scabbard. The metallic slide it made settled low in Bilbo’s belly where tension and fear had gathered. He slid his arm into the shield kept by his side. “All hands beat to quarters!”

 

The deck immediately turned into a frenzy of activity; the Dwarves hadn’t been idle before this, not exactly, but now they moved with an undercurrent of urgency. Most had serious expressions (Kíli’s grin seemed to be of anticipation) and every action was practiced and efficient.

 

Bilbo looked on in wonder. It was evident, now more than ever, that these Dwarves had worked with each other for many years; orders shouted by the Captain or quartermaster seemed superfluous given how seamlessly the crew followed them.

 

“They must have waited for us,” Dwalin said grimly. He had one axe in hand, using it to gesture at the crew, otherwise keeping it low by his side. “That Wizard might be dead, or they let him escape.”

 

“It doesn’t matter.” Thorin’s hair was held by a single ribbon, the ends of which fluttered in the wind. “We cannot outrun the _White Warg_ , not with her copper plating.” He scowled and cursed, eyes fixed on the steadily approaching ship. “Loose sails and catch that wind! Keep us nimble; I’ll not have this ship open to that ram!”

 

Ram? Bilbo looked towards the _White Warg_. Now he could see the figurehead – the wolf, a creature that seemed to be all snarling teeth and empty eyes, clearly carved to look petrifying. Beneath it the bow of the ship curved outwards, and this did not look to be wood but metal, and dangerous. Was that the ram Thorin meant? What damage could that do?

 

Thorin turned, and caught Bilbo’s wide-eyed gaze. His steps were brisk, boots treading dully on the deck. “Master Baggins, you are to go to the berth and remain there.”

 

What? “But –”

 

“You will be in the way.” He tossed his head, keeping loose strands of hair out of his face as the wind changed. “You _are_ in the way.”

 

“I can fight!” What was the point in him joining this quest if he was supposed to do _nothing_? Thorin looked surprised at this outburst, and Bilbo viciously thought that he shouldn’t have. He already considered most of the crew as friends – he couldn’t sit idly by while they risked their _lives_. And while Bilbo couldn’t help with the cannons, he could still help. “If you are boarded, I can fight!”

 

Thorin bared his teeth in a gross parody of a smile. “We will _not_ be boarded.” He spoke over Bilbo’s protests. “Go below deck. That is an order.”

 

-

 

The waiting was terrible.

 

Bilbo had had no choice but to obey Thorin’s orders; he wanted to be considered part of the crew, and therefore had to listen to the Captain. He had dragged a crate into place beneath a porthole, though, so he could press his chin against the edge and watch what was happening.

 

He could hear better than he could see; the shouting from above deck, warnings and orders and curses, and the cannons being fired, loud as a tempest. Across his poor view came smoke like wisps of cloud or fog, masking the sky and the sea. Bilbo coughed and teared, grasping the frame of the porthole tightly as the ship lurched.

 

“Put your backs into it!” That was Dwalin, roaring over an answering shot of cannon from the _White Warg_. “So help me Mahal, I’ll not have this ship be caught ‘tween wind and water!”

 

“Too late!”

 

Bilbo didn’t have time to put the voice to a face; the shout immediately preceded his falling off the crate as the ship pitched forward. Something must have hit the stern. Bilbo pushed up off the floorboards; if there was now a hole and the ship floundered, he would have to help. He and a few others in the crew were able to swim, and would have to keep the others afloat. Or perhaps if he swam quickly enough, he’d be able to fetch help from Rivendell, never mind the poor relations between Dwarves and Elves. Being alive was more important.

 

“Hard port rudder!”

 

“Can’t, Cap’n!” Dori, at the helm, had a shout filled with panic and resigned frustration. “That hit must have got the rudder, or the chain – we’re dead in the water, no two ways about it!”  


Bilbo strained to see from his looking point; the white ship bore down on them, turned ghostly white in the light of the moon. The wind was clearly on the enemy’s side, and with no way for _Deathless_ to veer out of the way –

 

“She’s going to hit us! Brace – _brace_!”

 

Instead of doing so himself, Bilbo threw himself across the berth to the other side of the ship, seconds before the starboard wall burst into splinters. Bilbo lowered the arm he’d thrown up on instinct – only peripherally aware that there were small points of pain all along it – eyes large and wide.

 

The tip of the ram had pierced not only the ship’s hull but the floor of the berth, no doubt going further down into the orlop, maybe even the hold. The tip was all Bilbo could see, clearly metal, biting blue-silver edged with red. Short, fat needles stuck out from the surface, clearly added insult to catch any unwary victim.

 

Bilbo set his jaw. So much for not being boarded.

 

Ignoring his common sense and Thorin’s orders both – because the circumstances had changed and neither would help anyone now – Bilbo pulled himself up the stairs as Thorin called for the swivel guns to be mounted. His left arm stung; he espied crusting blood on his mottled skin and wrenched his gaze back upwards. He could ignore the pain – it was easier to block out than the heartbeat in his ears.

 

Bilbo poked his head up to survey the deck before climbing onto it proper – a quick glance saw Fíli, Kíli, Bifur, and Óin on the guns. They shot at the Orc crew who were throwing over hooks and ropes, pellets and shards propelled forwards and knocking the enemy off their feet. He expected the Orcs to respond in kind, and so did the Dwarves by the bulwark going by the way they were taking cover.

 

But there was only harsh laughter and taunts in a terrible-sounding language – then cannon fire.

 

He was pushed flat against the deck by Dwalin; a massive hand on his back held Bilbo down as something heavy whizzed overhead. This was almost immediately followed by a terrific sound that filled his whole world. He covered his ears too late. Bilbo shook, teeth clenched and eyes closed as if he could ward off the attack with his own willpower.

 

For a moment, everything was still and almost-silent. Bilbo swivelled his head to stare up at the mainmast and at the jagged line that had been torn through it. Horror crept up his neck and made the hair there rise when the massive mast creaked in warning. In what simultaneously took scant seconds and an entire eternity, everyone watched it sway and then tip over. Ropes snapped and the sails billowed, not slowing the mast at all as it crashed into the bulwark and the _White Warg_ ’s foremast – crippling both ships at the same time.

 

The Orcs didn’t seem to care.

 

Sound filtered in properly, treating Bilbo’s pointed ears to deep laughter. Dwalin rose to his feet, pulling Bilbo upright as he went and doing the same to Nori. Nori had been up in the shrouds when the mast had fallen, he realised, and was now holding one arm stiffly.

 

But Bilbo couldn’t focus on this. He’d tracked the source of the laughter. The Orc Captain stood at the fore of the _White Warg_ , pale and gaunt like the fading paint on his ship. He was taller than all of his crew, build strong, strange scars cut into his body. His laugh died away but the smirk remained, mouth full of wet, sharp teeth.

 

“Azog.” There was hatred in Thorin’s voice, travelling down his straight back and clenching his fists. Bilbo could not see his expression but could take a guess: mouth held in a thin line, brows almost joined together, eyes shadowed. “So you still live.”

 

The Orc language was an affront to the ears, rough and fractured. Bilbo had no idea what Azog was saying but it was clear to all that he was gloating. His smirk was wide enough to nearly split his face, like a shark seconds away from snapping up its prey, eyes shining strangely like points of light.

 

Then Azog started speaking in Common, somehow all the more frightening for it.

 

“You reek of fear, Oakenshield, you and your crew.” He drew his lips back from his teeth, running his tongue over them. “Just like Thrór when he faced me.”

 

“How dare you speak his name,” Thorin said, pointing the tip of his sword at the Orc. “I took one arm from you,” – Bilbo belatedly realised that Azog had a metal claw crudely in place of one forearm – “I should take the other for your daring.”

 

“Just as I took his head.” Azog laughed as Thorin fumed. He took two steps forward, leaving one leg up on _Deathless_ ’ fallen mast and leaning his metal arm on that knee. “Such good times, when all was death and blood and fire.”

 

“Like fire, do you?” Kíli yelled, breaking the tension as thoroughly as a rock sploshing into water. All eyes turned to him, Bilbo in time to catch the motion Kíli made; there was a glimpse of something dark and round in his hand as he swung his arm up and forward, beside him Fíli was doing the same, both throwing something –

 

Time sped up again, seconds went by in a blink and Azog blocked one of the projectiles while the other fell at his feet. Both went up in a blaze of light and fire.

 

Someone amongst the Dwarves cheered at the sight, while Orcs jabbered or screeched. The fire did not engulf Azog – Bilbo felt disappointed at this, over the disquiet of being able to want another creature dead – as he’d moved out of the way, but the canvas sails were swallowed within moments.

 

Óin and Bifur had taken the opportunity to reload the swivel guns in the confusion and chose to fire them. Orcs that were not dead from the shrapnel or the fire grasped ropes and badly-made cutlasses, preparing to board. Fíli and Kíli continued lobbing their strange fire-making weapons as they shouted insults. The fight had resumed.

 

Shielding his eyes against the bright glare of the growing fire, Bilbo tensed as Orc boots thudded against _Deathless_ ’ deck. Weapons clanged and clashed, enemies coming together with hisses and shouts. Bilbo twisted this way and that to keep out of the way of feet – not always successful in this endeavour – and clawed at any uncovered patches of skin he could reach while suppressing the need to thoroughly clean under his claws.

 

A dagger clattered onto the floorboards, just shy of piercing Bilbo’s tail, and he seized it without taking. The principles seemed straightforward enough, despite the fact that his wrist was already aching from the unfamiliar weight. He’d seen the Dwarves practicing; it was all poking and slicing and preventing the other person from doing the same.

 

This would have been easier, no doubt, if Bilbo possessed legs to stand on. He’d have been able to move more quickly to avoid and deliver blows, and situations like having his flippers _trod_ on by a particularly ugly Orc would never have come about.

 

In the process of pulling himself free and keeping the point of his borrowed dagger up, Bilbo did manage to trip up the Orc and cause it to impale itself. His eyes were very wide and very shocked as the Orc gurgled wetly and fell dead, pulling at the hilt of the dagger so it slid from his grasp.

 

Numbly, Bilbo looked around to see if anyone else had noticed, or if he’d somehow imagined it and was now going to be killed. Luck was on the Hobbit’s side, fortunately, as he was left alone with the corpse and safe to stare frozenly without being killed for his inattention.

 

A flash of silver caught his eye.

 

Bilbo threw out a hand entirely without thought, calling out as he did. If his voice had been audible over the cacophony of the sailors’ bellows and clash of swords and the crackle of the flames, then he would have been heard crying “Thorin!”

 

And perhaps, if his voice had carried and been heard by its intended recipient, Thorin may have stopped from carrying out his idiotic plan of running across the now-burning mast of his ship, sword raised and gaining speed and momentum every step he took.

 

Azog met him head on.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo despairs the stupidity of Dwarves.

Bravery and stupidity were clearly entwined in Thorin’s psyche as thoroughly as anemone on a hermit crab’s back. Why else would he single-handedly take on an enemy that was larger and more powerful than he was?

 

Bilbo could not imagine a situation in which his parents were killed as Thorin’s family were killed, and could not imagine throwing himself at the perpetrator as Thorin was doing. Hobbits were just too different to Dwarves. They did not involve themselves into the affairs of Orcs or pirates or battles.

 

Well, that hardly held true for Bilbo anymore, did it?

 

He kept his eyes on Thorin, heart fluttering against his breast, watching with wide eyes and a slack jaw as Azog swung his weapon straight at his enemy. It was not a sword, whatever it was, but it was like a club that ended in a spiked head and it smashed into Thorin’s body without mercy. The blow threw Thorin off his feet. By some miracle or sheer determination Thorin kept his sword in hand, able to bring it up to deflect Azog’s attempt at a follow up bashing.

 

The shield that gave Thorin his name came up next, blocking Azog’s metal arm, and Thorin rolled to his feet to face Azog.

 

Around them the flames continued to grow, flickers of orange and red and yellow spreading up and along the ropes and sails, surrounding Thorin and Azog. The other Orcs kept their distance for this reason, preferring to relocate to _Deathless_ , which was notably not on fire.

 

Bilbo was briefly distracted by one of these Orcs as it loomed over him, hissing and spitting. He stared blankly up at it, not in a position to defend himself, and then blinked – as the Orc blinked – at the blade suddenly sticking from its chest. Black blood spattered over Bilbo’s face and the Orc fell, revealing Bifur and his spear. He quirked his eyebrows in acceptance of Bilbo’s stuttered thanks.

 

Returning hazel eyes to the _White Warg_ , Bilbo was horrified to see Thorin weaponless. The Captain was using his shield to ward off the blows dealt by Azog. His lip was split and one eye was shut thanks to a cut on his brow. The fire was out of control by now – though still ignored by the captains of both ships – painfully bright against the night sky. It had reached the _White Warg_ ’s still-standing mainmast and stretched upwards as if wanting to grasp the stars.

 

Thorin slipped.

 

Azog’s mouth twisted into a smile, triumph lighting his bloodless face better than the flickering fire. He raised his weapon.

 

“ _Thorin_!” Dwalin attempted to cross the mast as Thorin had, but his footing betrayed him. The quartermaster hung on grimly, attempting to pull himself up even as he strained to go to his Captain’s side. “No!”

 

More than one head had turned to the sight; Bilbo held his breath and almost shouted when Thorin dropped his shield arm. The conclusion seemed foregone. Azog would crush Thorin’s skull, and then would turn his attention on the rest of the crew – Bilbo included. And –

 

Thorin surged upwards, curling his back and thrusting his sword through Azog.

 

Through the dazzling flames and the cloying smoke, Bilbo hadn’t even seen Thorin retrieve the sword but he was exceedingly glad for it. The shock was clear on both Azog’ and Thorin’s faces. They were unmoving, staring at each other… and then Azog choked up blood, stark contrast against his pale skin. Thorin pulled himself to his feet then, drawing his sword back and letting Azog fall.

 

He looked back towards _Deathless_ and his crew. His expression was unreadable, and Bilbo wondered if he felt triumphant or disbelieving.

 

Then the _White Warg_ burst into pieces, fire blossoming violently.

 

“The magazine! The fire must’ve ignited the powder!” Óin shouted. Everyone else had covered their ears at the tremendous sound of the ship’s deck and mast splintering – and the bodies on said deck soaring into the water.

 

Bilbo didn’t stop to think. He pulled himself over the side of the ship and splashed into the warm water. The light from the moon was just bright enough to see by; Bilbo dived, eyes darting frantically in his search for the Captain.

 

There!

 

Bilbo swam downwards, following the thin trail of blood. He avoided the (hopefully) dead bodies of the Orcs and the debris from the ships, fervently hoping that no sharks were on their way. It would just complicate things.

 

Thorin’s eyes were only just open when Bilbo drew level with him. He seemed to barely register Bilbo’s presence, smiling faintly before his eyelids slid completely closed. Bilbo reached out, grasped broad shoulders, and shook Thorin. There was no reaction except for the narrow stream of bubbles that escaped surface-ward.

 

Moving quickly, he wrapped an arm around Thorin’s body, hooking his elbow under Thorin’s arm. He fisted the fingers of his free hand into the Dwarf’s tunic – then started pulling.

 

Having never had to pull more than his own weight through water – plus the odd Hobbitling or two – Bilbo was immediately struck by difficult it was to get Thorin to the surface, to air. No doubt the Dwarf was heavy as it was, but his clothes and armour and weapons were dragging them both down.

 

Bilbo kicked his flippers desperately, cursing in clicks. Given half the chance he’d have ripped off Thorin’s clothes, but he had neither the knowledge nor the time to do so. Bilbo didn’t know how long Dwarves could remain underwater – certainly not as long as Hobbits could, obviously – but Thorin’s unresponsiveness was worrying. He needed air.

 

From below, the damage to _Deathless_ looked even worse. The hold in the hull looked as jagged as the shipwreck Bilbo had explored… that seemed like a different time altogether. He wouldn’t have imagined that he’d now be dragging a Dwarf through the water. Yet here he was. Here they were.

 

Thorin’s face was pressed against Bilbo’s neck; he could feel the sharp jut of his nose in particular. Long dark hair floated about his face, coiling around Bilbo’s arms and body. Doubtless the Dwarf would’ve found this position galling, had he been aware of it. Bilbo decided not to tell him – if he had the chance. If Thorin survived.

 

Bilbo forced himself to kick harder. They were so close to the surface, but not close enough. Unbidden, images of Thorin came to Bilbo’s mind; pale eyes so full of memory, thin lips held in a stern line, expression somehow stern and sad all at once. His deep voice caressed snatches of that bewitching song, passion and pain warring and mingling.

 

He imagined Thorin dying in his arms, still so far from their goal.

 

No. Bilbo wouldn’t allow that to happen. He _couldn’t_. He had signed the contract to help these Dwarves – but more than that, he now felt responsible for the outcome of the quest. He felt obliged – willingly obliged – to help them regain their home.

 

He wanted to help _Thorin_ regain his home, and to do that he just needed to be… strong!

 

Bilbo breached the surface first, clumsily pulling at Thorin so the Dwarf was head and shoulders above water, but was only strong enough to achieve half of this. All the same, Thorin should have been able to breathe – but wasn’t.

 

“Thorin?” Bilbo adjusted his arm so it curled as best it could around Thorin’s back. He fit his other hand to Thorin’s neck, tipping his chin back and above water with his thumb. “Thorin, please – wake up!”

 

But there was no response at all.

 

Unaware of everything but the smell of the water and the Dwarf in his arms, Bilbo flinched when something or someone splashed into the sea just beside him. He tensed, teeth bared – then saw the axes.

 

“Give him here, lad,” said Dwalin. He seemed to have little trouble supporting Thorin’s body while himself remaining afloat. Bilbo hadn’t been aware that surface dwellers could do that.

 

He looked upwards and could just make out Fíli and Kíli fighting the Orcs, on the burning, half-ruined _White Warg_. Did they have the same death wish as Thorin?

 

“Bilbo!”

 

He wrenched his attention away from the melee above. Thorin – still limp and unconscious – was the priority.

 

“I’ll hold him up and hold his nose,” Dwalin said.

 

Bilbo wasn’t sure what this was supposed to accomplish but –

 

“You give him the kiss of life.”

 

Er. What was that?

 

His wide-eyed confusion seemed very obvious (the flames from Azog’s ship probably lit his face well enough to be seen), because Dwalin quickly explained, “Put your mouth over his and blow – force some air into his lungs!”

 

“But that –” That sounded an awful lot like mating etiquette. Not to say that Bilbo hadn’t entertained certain fantasies, but those were private and unlikely to play out for a multitude of reasons. (Reasons like their being different species, Bilbo’s apparent ‘uselessness’, and now Thorin’s near-death.)

 

“Do it lad!” Dwalin already had one massive hand over Thorin’s face, pinching his nose closed. “Before it’s too late!”

 

Bilbo stopped his racing thoughts and surged forward like the tide. He put his hands on Thorin’s shoulders and sucked in a quick breath before pressing his mouth to Thorin’s.

 

Absolutely nothing happened.

 

Having expected Thorin to instantly splutter back to consciousness, Bilbo felt cheated. Were they too late? He looked to Dwalin, desperate.

 

“Again,” Dwalin demanded. “And make sure his mouth’s open this time.”

 

…ah. That might have been it.

 

Thorin’s beard and moustache were damp and bristly against his skin, but he persisted, forcing air from his body to Thorin’s. Bilbo was quite sure that his cheeks were flushed at the impropriety of what he was doing. It may have been necessary to keep Thorin alive, but it was difficult to suppress years of respectability and lessons on modesty.

 

Finally – _finally_ – Thorin drew in a sudden breath of his own. He momentarily coughed and sputtered, Dwalin drawing back, Bilbo’s hands still clamped over his shoulders, then his eyes snapped open. He caught Bilbo’s gaze, recognition flittering deep in those pale blues, and his lips moved, forming words no one could hear. Then, just as suddenly as he’d regained consciousness, he lost it again.

 

“Do I…” Bilbo bit his lower lip and glanced beyond Thorin. “Do I try again?”

 

The Dwarf now put his fingers underneath Thorin’s nose; to check his breathing, Bilbo supposed. “No,” Dwalin said finally, sounding relieved. “He’s fine, for now.”

 

That was right. There were more dangers around them than just drowning; Azog’s crew, even if their leader had died, and –

 

What was that?

 

“What?” rumbled Dwalin, and Bilbo realised he’d spoken aloud. He stretched out an arm and pointed.

  
Whatever it was that approached seemed too small to be another ship. In fact, it looked to be several things instead of one, cutting through the water and headed straight for them. Bilbo squinted; if only the flames didn’t flicked so brightly, he was sure he’d be able to see better.

 

“Are those sharks?” Dwalin asked sharply, and momentary alarm speared through Bilbo.

 

But no, it couldn’t be sharks. It wasn’t. He’d never seen them attack in such large numbers, even if there were tales of that sort of thing happening – but surely they’d be stealthier about it. Not to mention it was doubtful that they’d venture so close to ships. No, Bilbo rather thought they were –

 

“Eagles!” He exclaimed, feeling most of the tension drain from his back and tail. So this was the help Gandalf meant!

 

“Eagles? No, they can’t be –”

 

“They are!” He was more sure than ever, given he could now hear their clicks and whistles. “You must tell the rest to jump into the water – it’s the only way we’ll be able to escape!”

 

Dwalin still looked extremely doubtful. “How can you be sure?”

 

Truth be told he wasn’t, not completely… but _Deathless_ was all but sunk, whatever Orcs still alive remained locked in battle with the Dwarves. What choice did they have? “Trust me,” Bilbo pleaded. “You must trust me.”

 

It took another frantic moment of unsure glaring before the quartermaster gave him a tight nod. Then he tipped his head backwards and shouted: “Abandon ship!”

 

Most of the crew responded immediately, some needing another curt order from Dwalin before they splashed noisily into the water. (Dori in particular bellowed something about being unable to swim.) And in the next moment the Eagles reached them, and then scooped up the Dwarves despite – likely mutual – leeriness. Their skin was smooth and grey, and they made an absolute din that Bilbo could only just understand.

 

“Hold on to their fins,” Bilbo advised quickly, helping to drape Thorin into position. He stayed close; it would be easier to make sure Thorin stayed on if Bilbo helped keep him there. The Eagle would probably be able to tow a small Hobbit as well as a Dwarf – there were no complaints, at any rate.

 

A few Orcs – doubtless to avenge Azog’s death, or perhaps because they were on fire – jumped into the water as well. But between the Dwarves’ weapons and the Eagles’ strength, the enemy was left either dazed or dead.

 

Bilbo held on tightly to Thorin and their Eagle as they swam away; right now he wasn’t bothered about their destination, so long as it was in the opposite direction of the _White Warg_. If he strained his ears, Bilbo would’ve heard the Orcs screaming after them. Or perhaps that was result of stress and his overactive imagination.

 

The Eagle was warm and wet. She propelled herself (and her charges) forward with little trouble, cutting through the waves without slowing or stopping – much faster than any Hobbit. Bilbo looked around, observing the rest of her kin and their Dwarf passengers. His gaze always returned, however, to the Dwarf sharing his Eagle.

 

Still unconscious, Thorin looked in poor condition. He was not as unmoving as he had been previous to Bilbo’s, er, ‘intervention’, but there were still too many bruises and cuts across his face. The skin that was unblemished was pale with blood loss, and Bilbo had no idea what damage the fire had done. He did not twitch at all whenever the sea spray landed on his cheeks.

 

Thorin’s dark hair clung to his face, wet with water or blood or a combination of the two. It stirred a little in the breeze created by their Eagle’s progress; Bilbo stared at the thick braids in Thorin’s hair and inexplicably wondered if he’d ever be able to touch them. He wondered if he dared do it now, when Thorin was unknowing and everyone else unaware.

 

He wondered _why_ he wanted to touch Thorin’s braids.

 

Bilbo looked over the water again, towards his companions. Bifur looked to be having the time of his life, whooping over the rush of air in Bilbo’s ears. Dwalin was hanging on to his Eagle with a grim sort of determination, while Glóin’s expression bordered on mild hysteria.

 

Bilbo glanced back; they’d swum far enough that _Deathless_ and the _White Warg_ were nothing more than points in the distance. (Though the latter was a brighter and smaller point than the former, just to be clear.) Relief had him sighing deeply, tenseness lessening only a small amount. No one was following them. For now they’d escaped danger alive.

 

Well. Bilbo’s eyes went back to Thorin. Hopefully they’d _all_ have escaped danger alive. For the moment, though, there was nothing for Bilbo to do save hold on – to the Eagle, and to Thorin – and wait patiently.

 

 _Please survive_.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Eagles take them to an old friend, who takes them to a new one.

Though the Eagles were doing most of the work, Bilbo was exhausted by the time the sun peeked over the horizon. The water had grown steadily chillier as the hours passed and Bilbo couldn’t imagine how the Dwarves were feeling. They were not naturally insulated from the cold as he was.

 

Thorin remained unaware and unmoving, even in the face of the lowered temperature – or perhaps because of it. Bilbo wanted to check his breathing but could not for fear of falling off their Eagle (who had told him that her name was Nenheryn). Instead Bilbo was tormented by predictions of Thorin slipping into death; all because he had been too slow in saving him. His claws dug into Thorin’s tunic, piercing the cloth, and he stared at the cuts and scrapes on Thorin’s face. The red marks of soon-to-be bruises were spread across his sun-dark skin. Bilbo counted them. Each was another failure.

 

Would the Dwarves still continue on the quest without their Captain? Fíli and Kíli were of the same blood, would they take his place? There was no doubt that Thorin dying would dishearten all of them, but from the tales of their history these Dwarves were no strangers to loss.

 

Bilbo closed his eyes. He did not want these Dwarves to have to deal with more loss. They deserved so much better than that. For all that they were strange and did not adhere to a Hobbit’s rules of respectability, they were (mostly) Bilbo’s friends. He may have signed a contract agreeing to help them, but now he’d grown to _want_ to. He _wanted_ to help them regain the home that had been snatched from them because they deserved one, just as he had a home in Bag End.

 

A hot rush of tears threatened and Bilbo blinked rapidly, staring up at the sky in place of staring at Thorin. He had never thought that joining a quest would change him so much – even after Gandalf suggesting that this would come to pass. Bilbo _had_ changed, and likely would continue doing so as their journey progressed. If their journey progressed.

 

He did not look at Thorin.

 

“How much farther do we have to go?” he asked instead.

 

Nenheryn’s reply of clicks and whistles essentially translated into: “Almost there,” which made Bilbo frown. Then yelp.

 

A shape loomed out from the morning mist, and Bilbo briefly experienced the inexplicable and absurd notion that this was the _White Warg_. Then recognition flitted through the crew, and Ori’s cry (“It’s Orcrist!”) came just before Bilbo caught sight of Gandalf and Radagast on the deck of the schooner. Relief punctured the tiredness coiled around Bilbo’s chest as a smile finally settled over his features.

 

The Dwarves’ way of showing their relief was by complaining as they made their sodden way up aboard the schooner – about the cold saltwater compounding their injuries, about the loss of _Deathless_ , about Gandalf’s absence when he was needed. Gandalf did nothing but rolls his eyes.

 

Bilbo let Dwalin take charge of Thorin, trying not to notice how limply he hung from the quartermaster’s shoulder.

 

Nenheryn nudged him roughly, telling Bilbo not to worry needlessly. Though, as tales of Eagles went, she was not quite as tactful or polite as that made her seem, choosing to include such words as ‘grab’ and ‘bottom’.

 

Seeing as there was no point in disputing this – it _wasn’t_ likely to happen anyway, so there – Bilbo smiled and carefully ignored the suggestion. He thanked her and the rest of her herd instead. Someone needed to, considering the Dwarves were on _Orcrist_ and quite happy to be away from the Eagles that had borne them.

 

Gandalf leaned over the bulwark, ostensibly paying no attention to the Dwarves for the moment. “You took your time,” he called down.

 

Nenheryn snorted. “Be thankful we did not leave your Dwarves to drown,” she replied – in Common, Bilbo realised. She and her people must not have been fond of Dwarves; their choice of speaking in a language only Bilbo could understand was enough of an indicator of this, if her retort to Gandalf hadn’t.

 

“Even you are not that cruel, o’ Lord of the Waters.” Gandalf’s eyes crinkled with his smile. “I thank you.”

 

“Have a care for the Dwarf they call Oakenshield, Mithrandir. He is halfway to the halls of his forefathers.”

 

Gandalf frowned at this announcement, pulling back from peering over _Orcrist’s_ side. Bilbo – having clambered into the boat Bofur had lowered – turned his head fast enough that something in his neck cricked. He looked at Nenheryn. “He’s dying?”

 

“After what he has gone through, are you surprised?” If the Eagle could smile, doubtless she would. “The Grey Wizard will look after him. And so will you.”

 

This seemed to serve as taking her leave, as most of the other Eagles slid fully into the water, waving fins or tails as they swam away. Radagast splashed down from _Orcrist_ with a loud whoop and whooping again when Nenheryn bore him away, following after her herd.

 

Bilbo waved back, though his heart wasn’t in it. He was more preoccupied with what Nenheryn had told him and with the Dwarf she had helped carry. Every jolt the boat made as it was hoisted up jarred Bilbo mentally as well as physically. He could not say why he was so invested in Thorin’s safety, only that time was stretching impossibly, pulling at his senses and making him yearn to be aboard.

 

Gandalf was kneeling by Thorin, one hand held over his face. Bilbo stayed beside Bofur; all he really needed to know was if Thorin survived, and that could be determined from this distance. He did not want to disturb Gandalf’s work, and did not want to risk aggravating Thorin by hovering closely.

 

A hand landed on Bilbo’s shoulder, squeezing lightly; he looked up into Bofur’s kind smile. The hand squeezed again before withdrawing, and they both returned their attentions to the Captain.

 

Óin was crouched opposite Gandalf, looking over Thorin’s injuries. “Bruises, cuts, and burns,” he tutted. “But it’s the cold that’s done this; necessary as it was.”

 

Gandalf didn’t reply, face tight with concentration. His eyes closed and his lips formed inaudible words. As he moved his hand downwards and uncovered Thorin’s face, Thorin suddenly drew in a deep breath, rapidly blinking. Gandalf heaved a relieved sigh – echoed by the rest of the crew – and sat back on his heels, smiling.

 

Was this magic? Was this why Gandalf-the-wizard had been recruited on this quest?

 

Thorin’s first attempt at speech was disrupted by coughing, but he stubbornly suffered through it and pushed himself into a seated position. He tried again, voice not up to its full strength but still loud enough to carry. “The Halfling?”

 

“Not to worry,” Gandalf soothed. “Bilbo is here.”

 

Startled that Thorin would ask after him at all – and using a practically ancient and unused term for Hobbits – Bilbo stayed where he was. Thorin met his wide-eyed gaze and attempted to get to his feet. Thorin leaned heavily on Fíli and Óin as they helped him, Gandalf rising to his towering height and calmly drawing back.

 

Thorin shrugged off his crewmembers; they and the others withdrew willingly enough, expressions ranging from worried to expectant to disapproving. Bilbo didn’t know how he himself looked. He swallowed nervously when Thorin stepped forward.

 

“You! What were you doing?” Thorin didn’t wait for a reply, just as he ignored his limp. “You nearly got yourself killed! Did I not order you below deck?” His hands were clenched into fists and trembling – whether due to chilliness or anger, Bilbo did not know. “Did I not tell you that you were _useless_ to this quest?”

 

Anger and shame welled up in Bilbo, hot and paralyzing. He wanted to lower his gaze and agree, just as much as he wanted to bare his teeth and snap. It felt like something was stuck in the back of his throat, preventing speech, preventing him from snarling that he _wasn’t_ useless and that he shouldn’t have saved Thorin in the first place. He shouldn’t have signed the contract in the first place.

 

Thorin had stopped, an again-bleeding cut across his nose and his eyelashes clinging together wetly. His pale eyes cut into Bilbo as he glared, and glared, and then –

 

Then he dropped to one knee and embraced Bilbo deeply.

 

A cheer went up amongst the crew but to Bilbo this sounded muffled, as if he was floating underwater. The sense of sound seemed irrelevant when there was touch. He could feel strong arms around him, a strong chest beneath a torn and burnt tunic, and a bristly-wet beard against his cheek. Thorin’s grip was firm, but gentle, and within it Bilbo slowly let his worry and fear seep away.

 

Just as cautiously, he hugged Thorin back.

 

“I have never been so wrong in all my life,” Thorin said lowly, voice all the deeper with his close proximity.

 

Bilbo should have been more amazed at Thorin’s admission, but the truth was that he was more preoccupied with how they sounded. Thorin’s mouth was quite close to one pointed ear, whispering the words as if only for Bilbo to know.

 

Thorin’s arms tightened, just for a moment, and then he pulled back. Still on one knee, he set his hands on Bilbo’s shoulders, and Bilbo watched as a smile settled on his features, bright like moonlight on water. With Thorin looking at him like that, it was all too easy to forget where they were and what had happened.

 

“I am sorry I doubted you.”

 

Though this was the second apology Thorin had ever offered to Bilbo, it was immediately apparent that it wasn’t a product of duty. It was genuine. An answering smile curled Bilbo’s lips. “No, I would have doubted me too. I’m not a sailor or a warrior… just a Hobbit.”

 

“Not just a Hobbit.” Thorin squeezed Bilbo’s shoulder (like Bofur had done) and pushed up to standing position. “Never _just_ a Hobbit.”

 

Rather than feel bereft at the loss of contact, Bilbo was buoyant. It was strange how approval from someone he respected could make him so pleased – combined with the relief of their survival, Bilbo could say that he was equally as happy as he had been snoozing in the sun with Primula in his arms. Perhaps even more so.

 

Thorin had turned to Gandalf. “I did not think I’d see you or this ship again,” he said, crossing his arms. The only trace of the smile Bilbo had seen was a slight upturn of one corner of his mouth, but it was enough to soften Thorin’s tone, making him sound joking instead of accusing.

 

“It seems that without Bilbo’s intervention, you wouldn’t have.”

 

Bilbo’s ears wiggled. “The Eagles helped more than I did.”

 

“Eagles?” Thorin looked back to his crew. “I don’t remember flying.”

 

“So you shouldn’t.” Dwalin snorted. “Apparently Eagle is the Hobbit term for dolphin.”

 

 _Dolphin_? There were times when surface-dwellers clearly did not appreciate the creatures of the sea, and this was most certainly one of them. Dolphin. What a horrible word. Bilbo wrinkled his nose.

 

“They will be recompensed, should they wish it… should we succeed.” Thorin cleared his throat. “What is our position, Balin? Are we still on course?” He made to stride towards bow of the ship, no doubt to see where they were heading, but stumbled. Óin was by his side in a thrice.

 

“Those injuries will need seeing to, laddie.” He’d not bothered to take out his hearing trumpet (if it had survived their escape from _Deathless_ ), obviously unwilling to listen to any arguments. From Thorin’s expression, there was no doubt there would be very many of those. “Let’s go below deck before I have to saw off a limb.”

 

* * *

 

The morning air was brisk but bearable; it was certainly not as cold as the water had been. Since the sun as out – although not too warm – most of the Dwarves decided that now would be the best time to dry their sodden clothes. They stripped off their layers and lay them out in the shrouds (as in Nori’s case), on the guns, or just spread out on deck.

 

Hobbits obviously did not wear clothes – and now watching the Dwarves, Bilbo was reminded that he was still confused about their purpose. It had been explained to him that clothes were a form of protection against the elements, like Hobbits had thick skin and a thicker coat of fur. It was also useful to differentiate one person from another; Gandalf favoured his grey robes and silver scarf, for instance. He also thought that modesty had something to do with it, though this might have been a wrong assumption going by the way the crew so readily shucked their garments.

 

Some even went without their trousers, which put entirely too much pale skin on show for all that the Dwarves seemed to have enough hair on their legs to match a Hobbit’s fur. Bilbo took this as a sign to make his way below deck – he was taking up space that could be used to dry clothes on, anyway.

 

 _Orcrist_ was much smaller than _Deathless_. It only had a single hold below deck to accommodate supplies and the crew. Óin had taken charge of the stern, making it into a surgery, and appeared to be _sewing_ Thorin.

 

The Captain had his head turned away from Óin but had no trace of pain or alarm in his face. “Is there something you need, Master Baggins?”

 

“I…” Truth be told, Bilbo wanted to ask how Thorin could be so calm while having a needle _in_ his arm – but that would be rude. It was surely for healing purposes. Óin wouldn’t add to Thorin’s (extensive) injuries. “I just wanted to know where I’d be sleeping.”

 

Thorin opened his mouth and paused before closing it. He’d also realised that the shark tank had been left aboard _Deathless_ , and was either in pieces, or on the bottom of the sea, or both. “That is a problem.”

 

“I know we cannot delay. I should be fine out of the water for a few days,” Bilbo said, trying not to show how much the idea dismayed him, “but I will grow increasingly… uncomfortable.”

 

“Has Gandalf told anyone where we are headed?”

 

Bilbo lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “He only said we were visiting a friend of his.” Gandalf was very tight-lipped about who this friend was, diverting all enquiries with secret smiles or riddling not-answers. Glóin’s question on how Gandalf and Radagast had sailed Orcrist alone was met with the flat answer of “Magic”.

 

“This friend had better not be an Elf.” A scowl decorated Thorin’s face for a moment before he hissed at a particularly vicious tug from Óin. His scorching glare went unnoticed.

 

“Gandalf has never hidden the fact that he is friends with Elves,” Bilbo pointed out. “He may have tricked you into going to Rivendell, but he made no secret that he wanted to seek their help in the first place.”

 

“I hope you’re right.” Óin tied off his thread and cut it. Thorin sighed. “We’ll most likely resupply at this ‘friend’s home; we will tackle your sleeping arrangements then. Assuming we aren’t immediately put in jeopardy after arriving.”

 

Bilbo smiled, mildly amazed that he and Thorin were sharing a rational conversation. “I’m sure Gandalf wouldn’t knowingly endanger us,” he said.

 

He was wrong.

 

* * *

 

Gandalf’s friend was named Beorn. He was incredibly tall and heavyset with a serious expression, a mess of black hair, and canines that peeked out past his lower lip, rivalling Bilbo’s. He was also _not_ Gandalf’s friend, and was not fond of Dwarves. Bilbo had to wonder who (besides himself) _was_ fond of Dwarves.

 

After mooring _Orcrist_ , Gandalf had announced they would approach Beorn’s home in twos. He divided the crew accordingly, instructing that they wait five minutes between each pair. It was a surreal experience for Bilbo, who was reminded of his Hobbitling days, when their teacher had taken them for day trips around the reef.

 

Off they went two-by-two, with Gandalf and Thorin at the head, until Dori, Ori, and Bilbo were left. Given the rocky terrain, Bilbo was glad for Dori’s strength in being able to carry him – his skin may have been thick enough to prevent being pierced, but it would have been very uncomfortable. Ori was happy to chat with Bilbo as they walked – until they all caught sight of their would-be host in all his wild and fanged glory. Being surrounded by Dwarves did nothing but make him look even more huge.

 

Bilbo could not say why even this first glimpse of Beorn made him immediately wary, only that it did.

 

Gandalf appeared to be explaining all that had happened to the Dwarves. If the Wizard had a gift then it was for storytelling; Bilbo had grown up listening to words weaving complex worlds, filled with characters to love and hate, their lives and choices and mistakes – all tales that formed the history of Middle-Earth (which, now that Bilbo thought about it, Gandalf would likely have lived through).

 

Beorn hung onto every word and periodically interjected with questions, just as Bilbo had done in his youth. Bilbo didn’t remember being quite as loud or bloodthirsty, though; Beorn’s voice boomed as he picked out details of Azog’s death and laughed inappropriately.

 

“So you say Pale Orc is dead! Very good, very good – if what you say is true.”

 

Thorin spoke before Gandalf, somehow glaring up at Beorn without lifting his chin. “It is true. I killed him myself.”

 

Disregarding this entirely, Beorn continued, “He killed whales for sport, you know. I _hate_ Orcs, and Azog made me hate their kind even more.” He shook his head, frown lifting marginally as he considered the crowd of Dwarves and one Hobbit. “And I now see that your story was a distraction, Gandalf!”

 

“You would not have allowed us here otherwise,” Gandalf unrepentantly pointed out.

 

“True or not, your tale has amused me, so I will let you stay. Even if you have brought more Dwarves than I care to keep under my roof.” Unbothered by the grumblings this garnered, Beorn turned his grey eyes to Bilbo. “But you – you are no Dwarf.”

 

Gandalf cleared his throat. “This is Bilbo,” he said, gesturing. “Our Hobbit.”

 

“I’m quite aware of what he is,” said Beorn, returning his gaze to a now-curious Bilbo. “I’d wager you have relatives near here.”

 

“Yes, I do,” Bilbo replied automatically. Those relatives flourished in frigid waters, and would usually swim for yearly visits during Hobbiton winters. He wondered if this _huge_ land dweller had met those Hobbits or eaten them. Both scenarios were entirely possible.

 

Beorn nodded. “They’re a fair sight paler than you, though… Good for their icy homes. Keeps them out of trouble.”

 

“How do you know these Hobbits?” Thorin demanded.

 

“The gulls tell me.” Beorn didn’t look away from Bilbo. This seemed to annoy Thorin. “And sometimes I see them when I swim.”

 

“Isn’t it too cold for swimming?” Bombur shivered.

 

“Not for me.”

 

Gandalf coughed. “Be that as it may, since you have agreed to let us stay, may we relocate indoors? The clouds overhead do not look promising, and I do not think these Dwarves would appreciate another soaking.”

 

Beorn inclined his head. “Very well.” He rose from his seat, towering head _and_ shoulders over Gandalf. He pointed to a tall building with a bright light at its top; a building Bilbo had not noticed for staring at Beorn. It seemed fitting that such a large Man lived there. “I will lead the way.”

 

* * *

 

Despite his frightening appearance and self-admitted dislike of Dwarves, Beorn was a good host.

 

His home was big enough for all of the crew, not to mention the many animals that he kept. Bofur named them: dogs and horses and sheep, strange creatures Bilbo had never seen before, land dwellers with four legs that were able to walk on two. (Though this behaviour was unusual, he was told.) They understood Common though they did not speak it, fetching bedding and blankets when asked.

 

There was an abundance of food provided – and oh, the food! Bilbo had never tasted its like before. Life on _Deathless_ had been filled with unappetizing food whenever he could not hunt for his own meals. Meals now consisted largely of ‘honey’ which was harvested from what Beorn called ‘bees’. It was pale yellow and gloopy, and scrumptiously sweet. The bread baked by Beorn’s animals (again unusual behaviour) was soft and warm, unlike the lumps of almost-rock the Dwarves had. Bilbo discovered that dipping pieces of that bread into milk and honey was the best meal he’d ever had, octopus pie included.

 

The Dwarves’ complaints about the lack of meat tapered off when Beorn presented them with a basket of sea snails the next morning. As no one wanted them, Bilbo snuffled them up. They were crunchy and cold, but did not go well with the honey.

 

“How long are we staying here?” Bilbo asked, making sure to ignore the disgusted expressions Fíli and Kíli were pulling.

 

“A few days,” replied Balin. “To give time for all of us to heal.” He met Bilbo’s eyes, confirming the unspoken ‘to give _Thorin_ time to heal’.

 

“No one’s too keen on leaving, lad,” Glóin said gruffly, taking a swig from his (oversized) tankard, and then making a face. He had probably expected grog instead of the sheep’s milk. “We’ve to traverse Mirkwood waters.”

 

He swallowed the last bits of shell. “Are they dangerous?”

 

“They’re treacherous.” Pushing away his plate, Glóin placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “The stories say that it used to be beautiful and safe, but I doubt they ever were. What looks like calm water hides sudden shoals and whirlpools. Many a ship has sailed there, only to be lodged in sand or sucked to the bottom of the sea.”

 

Bilbo felt slightly queasy (no doubt as the Dwarves had been queasy about the snails). “But we – that won’t happen to _Orcrist_ , will it?”

 

“You never know, there’s always a chance,” Bofur said, shrugging. He caught Bilbo’s expression and hurriedly added, “But Balin’s the best sailing master we could ask for, and the lads have keen eyes.”

 

Thorin, holding himself stiffly in his seat, nodded. “I have and always will trust my life to the skill of my crew,” he said, an undercurrent of pride in his voice. “There are always risks in sailing, but we will just have to be careful, and take risks only when necessary.”

 

“See?” Bofur stretched languidly and yawned. He pushed his hat over his eyes and crossed his arms behind his head. “We’ll be perfectly fine.”

 

This was therefore the perfect moment for Gandalf to walk in, and announce: “It’s time for me to leave you.”

 

Alarm, then anger met this news. All the Dwarves were intent on making their questions and opinions heard, turning their voices loudly incoherent, but Bilbo’s mouth went dry. He could not speak.

 

Kíli’s voice rose above the rest, “Where are you going? And why now?”

 

“I have business to attend to. Wizard business,” he added sternly, when Kíli made to ask another question. “I was delayed in Rivendell by an important meeting, and it is the contents of that meeting that require my attention.”

 

“And such business is beyond the concern of lesser mortals, I assume,” Thorin said dryly.

 

“It concerns all of us, Captain Oakenshield,” Gandalf said, grave. “I will have the help of those that attended the meeting, but should we fail, you must not. You _cannot_. Smaug not the only force of evil, and should he join forces with a greater one, the seas will never be safe again.” He shook his head. “We can only hope that does not come to pass.”

 

Uneasy silence reigned. Bilbo stared into the empty bowl in his hands, hoping he was not too forlorn-looking. Though he was now friends with the Dwarves – Thorin now included – he’d known Gandalf for years. The Wizard’s presence on board was comforting to him, and now they’d have to brave Smaug on their own.

 

He’d have to brave Smaug on his own.

 

“Come now.” Bilbo looked up; Gandalf’s gaze was kind. “I have faith in you all. Otherwise I’d not have encouraged this quest. And when you leave Beorn has agreed to follow you for a ways, so you do not run into trouble.”

 

“How is he supposed to follow us?” Dwalin asked. “He’s no boat or ship, not that I’ve seen.”

 

“I am a skin-changer,” Beorn answered. He’d entered with Gandalf but had remained standing by the wall. “I will wear another form and accompany you to the border of my land.”

 

“What form is that?” Ori asked tremulously.

 

Instead of answering, Beorn demonstrated his abilities. Within the blink of an eye, he transformed from a hulking Man into a massive walrus with curved and dangerous tusks. His skin was covered in pink scrapes and scars, with white and black spots illustrating his age. Surprise and shock rippled through the crew, but Bilbo yelped and attempted to hide behind the closest Dwarf (in this case, Bifur).

 

“It’s alright,” Gandalf soothed as Beorn regained his usual shape. “He does not eat Hobbits.”

 

“You don’t know that!” Bilbo replied shrilly. Walruses were not common predators of Hobbits, but the fact remained that they did kill and eat them, just like sharks did. It was no wonder he’d been guarded when first meeting Beorn – his instincts had figured out that he was a danger before he had.

 

“Bilbo, I give you my word; he will not hurt you. Beorn’s diet consists of creatures as small as your snails were. All these animals live here because Beorn values them; he is not a monster.”

 

He peeked out from around Bifur. Gandalf was sincere – or at least looked it – while Beorn, returned to his Mannish form, looked amused. Amused was good. Or at least it was better than bloodthirsty anticipation.

 

“There really is no need to be scared, Bilbo. Would I put you in danger?”

 

Thorin snorted at this, before Bilbo himself could do so. “You were the one who suggested Master Baggins’ services to us. Every instance he has been in danger is, in a way, your fault.”

 

Gandalf shook his head. “Only partially. Bilbo came willingly,” he said, then added, “And you have accepted him into your crew.”

 

As it was clear to all that he referred to the scene aboard _Orcrist_ , Thorin merely looked away. Bilbo touched his shoulder, feeling the phantom pressure of the Captain’s hand upon it.

 

“I will dally no longer,” Gandalf said, tapping his fishing rod on the ground. “Take heart: I am not leaving you needlessly. We shall meet again, in Erebor.” He took the time to meet the eyes of all the Dwarves, and lastly Bilbo’s. “Good luck.”

 

* * *

 

On their last day, the crew was a flurry of activity as they readied the schooner; checking and rechecking knots and rigging, hauling supplies on board, going over every inch of the hull for missed weaknesses.

 

When Beorn beckoned to Bilbo, his immediate instinct was to hightail it to _Orcrist_. But. Gandalf had vouched for Beorn’s lack of Hobbit-eating, and despite Bilbo’s reservations about the skinchanger, he had continued to provide for his guests. And if he had truly meant harm, Bilbo surmised, he would not have waited for the day of their departure.

 

“Is there something you need?”

 

Beorn smiled, the arches of his tusks catching the first rays of sunlight. He pointed at a thing by his side, turned misshapen by the canvas draped over it. “I have a present for you, little otter.”

 

“You shouldn’t have gone through the trouble,” was his reply, instead of baring his teeth. Though, now that he thought about it, a bloodthirsty walrus would not have derived amusement from calling Bilbo names as Beorn did. If it wasn’t ‘little otter’, it was any other from a list of hundreds.

 

Beorn waved a hand dismissively. “I have been told you sleep in the water. Aboard the ship.”

 

The shark tank. “Yes.” Between discovering honey and fearing Beorn, he’d forgotten all about the issue.

 

“This is now yours.” He whipped off the canvas – revealing a barrel. Half a barrel, that was, cut through lengthways and put onto its side. Being one of Beorn’s barrels, this was longer than Bilbo and obviously for him to sleep in.

 

“I –” Bilbo touched the edge of the wood. “How did you know I would need this?”

 

“Your Captain. Oakenshield.” Beorn crouched beside the barrel, still towering over Bilbo. “He told me.”

 

Of course he did. Bilbo’s face coloured, not only at Thorin’s apparent thoughtfulness, but in shame. Even now he had lingering doubts about Beorn’s intentions when the skinchanger was kind, as Gandalf had said. He met Beorn’s eyes, eyes grey like the sky after a storm, and said, “Thank you.”

 

Beorn only nodded. “When you return to your home, stop by and tell me the stories of your adventures.” He grinned and poked Bilbo in the side, quick as a serpent. “Then I can plump you up again, on honey and milk, eh, little barnacle?”

 

Bilbo scowled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nenheryn means Lady of Water, to Gwaihir's Lord of the Skies.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doldrums, danger, dungeon.

They hadn’t moved for days.

 

Despite standing orders to keep the sails unfurled, there wasn’t a lick of wind to even ruffle the curls on Bilbo’s head, much less be caught in the canvas. Worse than the still air was the cloudless sky; the sun beat down on them mercilessly as _Orcrist_ remained immobile.

 

The Dwarves called this place with its peculiar weather ‘the doldrums’. As more and more time passed with days of relentless heat, Bilbo watched the crew grow increasingly short-tempered and listless.

 

On the whole there were less clothes being worn, and those shirts that were worn were usually soaked with seawater. This was to cool them down, Dori had explained, grimly wringing extra water from his thin tunic. Even if doing this had succeeded in cooling him down, Dori’s disposition didn’t sweeten any, and Bilbo carefully made his retreat.

 

Bilbo did his best to catch as many fish as he could, but he could not help with the dwindling water supply. The Dwarves were unable to drink sea water as Hobbits sometimes did – Bilbo didn’t really understand Óin’s explanation as to why this was so. He didn’t want to understand what ‘kidneys’ were.

 

The sun drummed down on all of them. When it was at its highest, Bilbo chose to spend his time in the sea, or in the seawater of the barrel Beorn had fashioned. This kept the heat and its effects at bay… for Bilbo, at least.

 

“Fíli?”

 

“Aye, Kíli?”

 

“If we cut open the Hobbit, will his belly be full of water to drink?”

 

Fíli groaned. He took a moment to try and wet his cracked lips before saying, “Bilbo’s a Hobbit, not a giant tortoise.”

 

“Bilbo’s also unlikely to sit by and let you cut him up,” the Hobbit said sharply. “If you try, I’ll… I’ll make sure you regret it.”

 

“Just be glad night’s almost upon us,” Bombur remarked over Kíli’s grumbling.

 

“I’ll be glad when we get out of this infernal weather.” The worst of the burning sun’s rays had passed, and Dwalin had accordingly abandoned his salt-stiff tunic. His skin was covered by scars, tattoos, and hair – now some patches were pink and peeling. Óin called them sunburn.

 

Bilbo was very thankful that such things didn’t happen to Hobbits. All that had happened to him with this increase in exposure to the sun was a proliferation in mottling. Thorin had commented on it when he’d volunteered to lower the jolly boat for Bilbo. Bilbo had been surprised and flustered that the Dwarf captain had noticed such an innocuous thing; he’d stammered out something garbled before slipping into the water. Hopefully the increased mottles (freckles, Thorin had called them) had covered his blush.

 

“Aye,” Glóin said, breaking Bilbo from his (disturbing) thoughts. “To make things worse, we’re near Mirkwood. I don’t want to be running into any more Elves.”

 

“Won’t they be… inland?”

 

Glóin shook his head at Bilbo. “These ones are strange, even for Elves. Blasted tree shaggers.”

 

Thorin emerged from below deck, blinking in the slowly dying brightness. He’d not chosen to walk about bare-chested like Dwalin or Fíli, though he was now only wearing the one thin undershirt. He’d pulled his hair and braids into one tail, catching Bilbo’s attention more thoroughly than the generous view of Thorin’s collarbones offered by the cut of his shirt.

 

“How much water’s left?” he asked Glóin.

 

Glóin made a face. “Few more days. Four or five, I’d say, if we’re to ration it.” He toyed with the chain around his neck, most of it hidden within his shirt. “Should’ve started rationing earlier.”

 

“We weren’t to know,” Balin said. “The only way we would have been prepared was to have a galley instead of a schooner.”

 

Bilbo opened his mouth to ask. Nori interrupted.

 

“Clouds!” He’d been lying flat on the bowsprit, but now was alert and facing forward. “Those are storm clouds, I’d bet my hat on it.”

 

“You don’t have a hat,” Bofur called back.

 

“I’ll bet your hat, then!”

 

Dwalin stood, looking – as everyone else was looking – at the line of clouds that had formed. Between them and _Orcrist_ was clear sky, and behind was angry grey, almost black. “Is this Elvish sorcery?”

 

“Without Gandalf, who can know?” Thorin grit his teeth. “Glóin, fetch Fíli and Kíli. I want them with the sails. Nori, get up there.” He didn’t watch Nori dash aloft, ordering Dwalin to the helm.

 

Bilbo frowned. While this was the most number of clouds they’d seen in several days, surely the Dwarves were getting excited over nothing. The air was dry still, the sun only just touching the horizon. He tapped Thorin’s belt.

 

“What is it, Master Baggins?”

 

His frown deepened at the short way Thorin spoke. “Why are you making such a fuss over some clouds?”

 

Surprise crossed Thorin’s face; he pointed at the clouds stretching across the sky. “Those clouds carry rain. We will sail as far as the storm allows us, but I will be damned before we are caught out by the wind.” He glanced back at Bilbo. “They are already closer than they were.”

 

Bilbo squinted up. He could not discern the distance of the clouds – approaching or not, there was a darker tint to them. “Yes, but –”

 

A blast of air hit him in the face, cold and sharp. Thorin strode away, shouting orders. Fíli and Kíli took charge of the sails, ready to secure them or leave them as they were instructed to. Ori made safe the lines, gently cinching one around Bilbo’s middle, making sure that all were attached to the mainmast.

 

Then the rain came.

 

* * *

 

Despite Bilbo’s misgivings, the Dwarves did well in the storm. This was the heaviest rain he had ever been in – since he’d always been able to slip underwater and away – coming down in sheets and sheets until it hurt. Bilbo covered his face, squinting, just in time for a wave to crest over the port side of the ship. It swept along the deck, sweeping more than one Dwarf off their feet.

 

Bilbo spluttered, pushing himself upright.

 

“Getting hard to hold her on course, Cap’n!” Dwalin struggled to keep the wheel steady, all his strength straining against the force of the wind and the water.

 

“Keep going!” Thorin shouted back. He was perched on the bulwark of the ship, clinging to the ratlines – an absolutely precarious position, almost hanging over the water. Bilbo peered at him; surely that wasn’t actually a smile on his face. It had to be the rain. “This squall will stop as soon as it started!”

 

“Squall?” Bofur’s laughter was somewhat hysterical as he held down his hat. The wind snatched at all their faces, tugging on their hair. “This storm ain’t natural! We’ll be pulled down!”

 

“We won’t!”

 

“Captain!” Fíli flicked his hair from his face, turned to strands of gold with the wet. “Uncle! We must drop canvas!”

 

Lightning flashed across the dirty grey sky, white foam spraying over them all, thunder cracking in their ears. The ship tilted to the side wildly. Thorin stood firm, knees bent, and Bilbo stared to see him so in his element. “She can hold! We need to sail as far as we can, while we can!” His gaze was steadfastly forward and Bilbo followed it. “We need to –”

 

The sky behind Thorin darkened inexplicably, a swathe of black that blocked out the clouds and the rain and the sea. As Bilbo frowned, it hung in the air. Lightning slashed across the sky, backlighting the _thing_ , for a moment making its silhouette sharp. Bilbo cried out.

 

Thorin had only turned halfway when the tentacle slammed into the schooner. The Dwarves shouted and cursed. Those who were closest drew their weapons, but three more tentacles surged from the water; two entwined over the mainmast, the other around the bowsprit.

 

“Kraken!” Dwalin yelled, abandoning his position at the helm. Within a second he held Grasper and Keeper in his hands, ducking under a fifth tentacle to hack at the first.

 

“Cut it loose!” Having been knocked onto the deck, Thorin rolled to his feet and drew his sword in one motion. His shield was already in position. “Kíli, stay aloft with your bow – wait for it to surface!” Thorin turned his head sharply, his hair tail swinging about and wrapping around his neck. “Ori, Bilbo – to the bow!”

 

Bilbo dug his claws into the wood of the deck, forcing himself forward as quickly as he could. The bowsprit had all but disappeared, covered by the vast squid’s arm as thick as Bilbo. The creature – ‘kraken’ – was a mottled black, the suckers on its tentacles sickly grey. They gaped like the maws of basking sharks, the outer rings lined with curved claws. He’d never seen one this large; Hobbits never ventured into deep water. They speculated, of course, since whales had been seen with scars that could have only been from grappling with a squid.

 

He managed to catch the dagger Ori tossed towards him, not hurting himself by virtue of its sheath. There was no time to be amazed by this. Bilbo yanked the blade free and stuck it into the squid, not bothering about finesse. Bluish blood spurted free but the tentacle only tightened its grip, creaking the wood.

 

“Keep going!” Ori shouted, hacking away with a heavy axe as if it weighed nothing. “Maybe we can cut it off!”

 

Or damage it enough that it loosened by itself. Bilbo ignored the noise from the rest of the crew and the way _Orcrist_ kept rolling and pitching at increasingly extreme angles. He kept stabbing and stabbing until his arms were tired, his hands and the dagger’s hilt slippery with blue blood and rain.

 

He looked back. There was another tentacle stretched across the deck, being chopped and hewn by several Dwarves. The squid’s body was not visible; Kíli had abandoned his vantage point and his bow, beside his brother as they worked. Nori lay unconscious beside the remains of the mizzenmast, Óin worriedly trying to wake him.

 

 _Orcrist_ tilted. And kept tilting.

 

More than one Dwarf shouted over the thunder and the massive creaking noise, in varying degrees of horror that boiled down to: “It’s pulling us under!”

 

Ori had not frozen in his tracks, unlike Bilbo. He swung down, connecting with _something_ within the tentacle that made it abruptly loosen and recoil. Partially severed as it was, it swung around erratically, flopping this way and that as _Orcrist_ started taking on water. The squid possibly attempted to pull this damaged tentacle back and it lashed out. Ori ducked in time.

 

Bilbo didn’t.

 

His safety line must have snapped at some point and he arced through the air and into the water. Winded and dizzy, Bilbo couldn’t tell which way was up, swimming blindly until he broke the surface of the storm-tossed sea. He blinked water from his eyes, only to watch as _Orcrist_ was dragged below, leaving a rush of bubbles and fragments of wood in its wake.

 

Pausing only to breathe in deeply, Bilbo dived. The ocean was much calmer than the surface, broken only by large bubbles showing the progress of the kraken and its prize. As Bilbo followed, he saw that the squid had all but two tentacles wrapped around _Orcrist_ in a way that doubtlessly had all the Dwarves trapped on deck. Its mantle filled and emptied, propelling it further below as its fins worked furiously. Bilbo could only see one eye, huge and glassy, luckily focused on its destination rather than any pursuers.

 

Being larger and longer, the squid reached its destination before Bilbo did – an underwater mountain that was closer to the surface than Bilbo would have guessed for an animal that size. It appeared to be using its tentacles to force sacs of _something_ into cracks in the rock face. Bilbo swam closer, only to discover that his friends were inside these sacs.

 

The squid was _storing_ them? What possible reason –

 

Just as the thirteenth sac was forced into a crevice, parts of the mountain suddenly detached and swarmed around the squid.

 

 _Children_ , Bilbo realised. Each was the size of a small whale, but absolutely dwarfed by their parent. For now they seemed uninterested in their food, choosing instead to explore the sunken schooner. Bilbo took the opportunity to swim to the mountain, carefully keeping to the side the squid family were not on.

 

What was he to do? How could he lure the squid away before freeing the Dwarves? He could not swim as fast as it could, that much was clear. He’d lost the dagger given to him, never mind that a frontal assault would be pointless. What could he do?

 

Bilbo spared a thought for Gandalf – the Wizard had helped them so many times in the past. He’d saved the crew from being eaten by Trolls, had saved them from being detained in Rivendell, had saved them from Azog’s crew by sending the Eagles –

 

Hazel eyes went round. The Eagles.

 

He pressed himself to the rock, then opened his mouth in an Eagle’s call for help. He made his clicks and screeches as loud as he could – if his memory served, lessons had mentioned squids having poor hearing – nails scraping against the rock. There were only two outcomes to Bilbo’s plan: succeed or fail, the latter either by being ignored or by being eaten.

 

The squid made a noise of its own, enormous and chilling. Bilbo shrank back, making himself as small as possible, feeling the water above him shift as the squid took the bait. Not only that, but its young followed as well – he could only suppose that their parent was going to teach them how to hunt a defenceless Eagle.

 

Well. They would soon learn that there was _no_ Eagle to be found, so Bilbo quickly got to work.

 

He didn’t know what the sacs were made of, but his claws and teeth could pierce them after a little trouble. They were apparently airtight, keeping the Dwarves alive. Most were alert as Bilbo released them, helping those who did not know how to swim (Balin) and those who couldn’t (Nori).

 

Having freed all of the crew, Bilbo found himself helping Dori, guiding the Dwarf as they kicked flippers and feet. Over the seriousness of the situation and his continued terror, Bilbo was able to feel a little bemused that their roles were now reversed. Dori did not share this frame of mind, clutching too tightly to Bilbo and distressed enough that more and more air escaped his lungs.

 

They encountered no more trouble. Even the storm had passed, leaving only grey skies in its wake and broken remains of _Orcrist_. Bilbo positioned Dori so he could grab onto a floating plank of wood, then dived again to see if any other Dwarves were struggling. He counted them but did not allow any relief, waiting underwater to ensure there were no squids on their tail.

 

Though Bilbo’s imagination helpfully supplied him with images of tentacles reaching out from the deep and pushing him into a beaked mouth, nothing of this sort happened. First that storm and then the squid… he was sure that the worst of their quest was over. They may have lost their schooner, but at least they were out of trouble.

 

Smiling, he looked up.

 

Wait. Those were more than thirteen pairs of legs.

 

Gut feeling made Bilbo stay where he was. He could see that the Dwarves were outnumbered, being led away by what could only be a group of Elves – Mirkwood Elves. There was no mistaking the lankiness of their bodies and the way their feet were very like flippers.

 

It was a miracle that they hadn’t noticed him, and Bilbo used this to his advantage. He allowed them to swim a ways away before peeking his head up over the surface. The moon was still blocked by clouds. The crew inadvertently helped Bilbo locate them by complaining loudly and struggling enough to cast violent ripples.

 

Trailing the Dwarves and the Elves that held them captive was difficult. Bilbo did not know how close he could follow before the Elves perceived his motion through the water – or even whether they could perceive such a thing. Being cautious, he kept his distance, taking care not to lag too far behind that he lost sight or sound of them altogether.

 

Their journey was short. The gloom of night did a good job of hiding the island that was the Elves’ home. As they approached, Bilbo could see that it was immense and covered in nothing but trees. He’d never seen anything like them. Thin and tall, they were stood on an extensive system of roots. These fanned from the trunk of each tree, burying themselves in the surrounding wet ground.

 

The water shallowed until only the mud was left; Bilbo could not venture closer without losing his cover. He gritted his teeth as he watched the Elves disappear into the dense foliage. None of the Dwarves were allowed to turn back or stop, so he could not even catch any of their gazes to let them know he was alive.

 

That he was going to rescue them.

 

 _Only if these Elves keep close to the shoreline_. He could not go gallivanting in the forest; it wasn’t like he had quiet feet or the ability to climb. Bilbo’s desperate gaze darted to and fro, in case there were any guards keeping watch that he hadn’t noticed before. Then he saw that the wood of the trees was two toned – the tide! Of course it was low tide. All he had to do was wait, and then he’d be able to sneak closer and (hopefully) gather information that would lead him to the crew.

 

He would not fail them.

 

* * *

 

A week passed.

 

Bilbo lurked around the island as close as he dared, never straying far from where the Dwarves had disappeared. It had taken the light of day to show that the trees there had been shaped into an elaborate entranceway. It stood to reason that Elves would pass through it – so they did.

 

These Elves shared similarities with the Rivendell ones, but there were more differences. Their clothes were fabric wrapped tight and secure like a second skin. They spoke loudly and laughed often, carrying weapons and nets, adorned in shining jewellery. They _felt_ dangerous despite their jovial nature – even leaving aside their capture of the Dwarves. They moved quickly, alert almost to the point of jumpiness.

 

A little luck was on Bilbo’s side – the Mirkwood denizens could not see well. He supposed that the dappled sunlight shining through the water and onto the mud allowed him to blend in, being mottled and mud-coloured himself. No Elf caught sight of him, at any rate, despite several near misses.

 

So far Bilbo had learned that these Elves had patrols every morning and evening – they were there to keep their waters clear of predators. The giant squid and its numerous younglings came to mind, but the Elves sometimes returned with a shark or netfuls of huge crabs. Bilbo wondered if they were instead hunting for food.

 

It was during one of these patrols that Bilbo finally received relevant news.

 

“You have a cloud in your face, Tédien,” said one Elf, covered in blue cloth. She spoke to one in green, who had dark skin and a dark look.

 

“I am on Dwarf minding duty. Again.”

 

The first Elf tutted, balancing a spear on her shoulder. “It is not difficult work. They cannot escape the trees.”

 

“The trees are not the problem.” Tédien bent over and scooped water over her face, long waves of hair falling over one shoulder. “You remember Dwarves, don’t you? They are tiresome, and stupid, and hateful. I do not want to spend more time in their presence.”

 

Her companion pursed her lips. “You have been ordered…”

 

“I know.” She retrieved her own spear. “I will carry out my duty, I just won’t like it.”

 

“At least you will be free during the festival tomorrow.”

 

Finally she smiled. Bilbo noted that all her teeth were pointed, as was the case with the rest of her kin. “Always looking for the good, Mereniel.”

 

Bilbo paid no attention to the rest of the conversation. The Dwarves were being held against their will, kept somewhere and guarded by the Elves. It was a relief to hear that they were still alive, and apparently healthy enough to be aggravating to their captors. Good.

 

 _They cannot escape the trees_.

 

What could that mean? Were the trees somehow sentient that they could imprison people? But if they were aware enough for that, wouldn’t they have revealed Bilbo to the Elves? Bilbo slipped underwater, glaring at their roots and the fish weaving through them, swimming close and considering him curiously; they’d likely never seen a Hobbit before and did not consider him a predator yet.

 

There was also a turtle nearby. It appeared to be having trouble; in its quest for a meal, it had swum through a large gap but now found its way barred. The roots in front of it were too close to each other. Bilbo watched as it lumberingly turned around and – after several tries – finally managed to escape its ‘prison’. It then went on its way, gliding past on a route between the trees instead of under them.

 

Wait. Bilbo frowned. Oh – _oh_! Of course! The trees _were_ the prison!

 

* * *

 

He found Thorin first.

 

After making sure there was no one nearby, Bilbo swam up to the Captain. The tide had come in, the water coming up to Thorin’s torso. He rushed forward when Bilbo whispered his name.

 

“How can this be?” he asked, voice cracked. Thorin’s eyes were tired underneath the shock and he clutched the roots of his tree with a subdued desperation. He swallowed. “I – we thought you were lost to the kraken.”

 

“After saving you all?” Bilbo was comforted that this managed to quirk Thorin’s lips. “I was too busy thinking the squid would come back that I didn’t see the Elves approach. I’m sorry.”

 

“You shouldn’t be. Who would rescue us then?”

 

Bilbo tore his gaze away under the pretence of checking for guards. His ears felt hot. His face felt hot. “How are the others? Are they alright?”

 

“The last time I saw them, aye.” Anger coloured his tone. “We were brought before Thranduil – the King of Mirkwood. We have history with this place, you see. He has abandoned us in the past. Now, after our ship was torn apart and we were almost eaten, he has decided that the best course of action is to imprison us.”

 

“But why?” Now that he considered it, even the Rivendell Elves had tried to detain them despite their relative kindness. Were Dwarf-Elf relations so bad, or was it just that their quest was that unwise an undertaking?

 

“He is afraid,” Thorin said contemptuously. He did not seem to hate Thranduil as much as he hated Azog and Smaug, but disdain and scorn were evident in its place.

 

Seeing as Thranduil had given orders to keep the Dwarves apart and confine them in trees, half immersed in brackish water, Bilbo could share that disdain. He glanced around again, flippers twitching uneasily.

 

Thorin sighed. “This is unimportant. You must find a way to release us.”

 

Swallowing, Bilbo also wrapped his hands around the roots. He made sure not to touch Thorin. “How did the Elves get you in here?”

 

“I… don’t know.” He shook his head, glaring down at himself. “It was after Thranduil was done with his taunts and gloating. I couldn’t – I… I didn’t see what they did.”

 

Thorin must have been too angry to notice, Bilbo mused. But that was understandable. He’d have felt the same if he’d been in Thorin’s place, though he would have tried to bite his captors – or bite free. Bilbo would have suggested the latter as a way of getting the Dwarves out, but the idea of gnawing all of them free made his teeth ache.

 

“Find the others,” Thorin said, jolting him from his painful thoughts. “I know they aren’t the sharpest axes in the armoury, but at least one will have an idea. It will give you a chance to see how far apart we all are, to properly plan our escape.”

 

“It has to be done tomorrow night,” Bilbo said slowly, “there is some sort of festival. They will be distracted.”

 

He was treated to a smile, one that lit up those _blue_ eyes. Bilbo’s face felt hot again, even before Thorin said, “You are much more than you seem, Master Baggins.” One of Thorin’s hands slid down and covered Bilbo’s, startling all self-consciousness from Bilbo’s head. “Go now, and be careful.” He swallowed, and for the first time since they had met, looked hesitant. “You are our only hope.”

 

Bilbo nodded mutely. Thorin squeezed his hand once, then let go. Bilbo pulled back, movements slow as if he was swimming through sand, and forced himself to turn away so he could start looking for the rest of the crew.

 

It felt impossible, but he did not look back.

 

* * *

 

The plan came together by accident.

 

When Bilbo located the last of the Dwarves – Kíli – it was to find that he’d was trying to escape. While Dwalin and Glóin had done something similar by attempting to break the roots with their own strength, Kíli had forced himself through the gaps between the roots. He’d gotten his head and one arm out before an Elf interrupted him.

 

Bilbo had only his eyes above the surface, and watched their unusual exchange. Neither seemed to be vitriolic to the other; the Elf actually smiled when Kíli tried to pull free and found himself stuck.

 

Then the Elf put her hands on the roots and murmured something Bilbo’s ears could not catch. The roots parted and – after she’d shoved Kíli back inside and muttered something else – closed. This time there was no space left for a Dwarvish arm, much less a head. Kíli tried a pout and wide brown eyes on the Elf, but she only shook her head and left. Kíli looked wistful.

 

Bilbo waited two moments before swimming up. “What did she say?” he hissed.

 

“Bilbo!” Kíli grinned widely, not repentant when he was shushed but obligingly lowering his voice. “How did you find us?”

 

 _By luck_ , Bilbo thought. “That doesn’t matter now, Kíli. We’ll have time to swap stories later, but now – what did that Elf say when she loosed the roots? Was it some sort of magic?”

 

“It might have been magic,” Kíli said agreeably. The lad was surprisingly – and annoyingly – chipper despite the circumstances that they were all in. “But all she said was ‘open’. Then ‘close’ when she was done.”

 

“‘Open’ and ‘close’,” Bilbo repeated. “That’s all.”

 

Kíli gracelessly shrugged a shoulder. “Well, it was in Elvish. Sindarin that is.” He frowned, and for a split second his resemblance with Thorin was extremely apparent. “We had to learn it, Mother said.”

 

“And can you use it to get yourself out?”

 

“No. Tried. That’s why I thought the physical approach was best.” Kíli scratched his head. “Maybe it’s an Elf thing?”

 

“Maybe.” Bilbo scratched delicately behind one ear, thoughts rushing round his head like a whirlpool. “Maybe I could…” He placed his hands as he’d seen the Elf do, gentle instead of grasping. It was difficult not to feel stupid – he was _talking to a tree_ – but Bilbo’s doubts melted away when he _felt_ the wood responding to his touch and part.

 

He gaped at Kíli, and Kíli gaped at him. Then grinned. “Must be a fish thing.”

 

Bilbo reached through the gap and hit him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They escape from Thranduil's prison, and come across the lights from the prophecy.

The festival began in the evening. From snatched conversations, they had learned the Elves were rejoicing in the light of the stars, apparently important in their lore. It suited Bilbo just fine. They would not only have a large window of opportunity but the cover of darkness as well.

 

He collected the Dwarves one by one, hushing them every time their splashing or muttering was too loud. Even if their captors were busy carousing – as Fíli groused – there was no point risking themselves unnecessarily. It took a beseeching look from Bilbo and Thorin subsequently ordered his crew silent.

 

The crew gathered loose wood where they could, branches and roots and even parts of fallen trees, using strips of cloth to make largish bundles. They could not make a raft that would hold all thirteen of them, so this was the best compromise. Two or three of them would share a bundle, able to keep above water without too much difficulty… leaving aside having to swim for an unknown amount of time before they hit land.

 

Happening upon a barge was a fortuitous accident.

 

“Is it the Elves’?” Bombur asked, face creased with worry. He was a confident enough swimmer that he went a wood bundle of his own.

 

Bifur replied in Khuzdul – the Dwarvish language – and Dwalin nodded. “Even if those mud-eaters did use boats, that style is Mannish. Has to be.”

 

“From Laketown?” Dori asked. He and Nori bracketed their younger brother Ori, the Dwarves having naturally gravitated towards family when it came to sharing their bundles.

 

“Must be.” Dwalin exchanged glances with Thorin. “We can only hope they don’t turn us away, or deposit us back with Thranduil.”

 

Thorin nodded grimly and raised his voice to call, “Ahoy!”

 

It took a tense moment before a face appeared over the side. The Man had dark hair that went past his rounded ears and a short moustache and beard. He wore simple clothes (from what Bilbo could see) and a surprised expression. “Who are you?”

 

“We are Dwarves from the Blue Mountains,” Balin called up. “Our ship was destroyed by a kraken – we seek to barter passage to the nearest port.”

 

The Man stared down at them for long enough that murmurs started up amongst the crew. Then he sighed. “Come aboard,” he said. “I’m sure you’d prefer to tell me your story out of the water.”

 

His expression did not lighten as all the Dwarves climbed onto the deck – though he spared an extra frown when he caught sight of Bilbo. He said nothing, however, watching everyone drip onto his barge and introduce themselves with their customary bows. He leaned on a barrel with his arms crossed and eyebrows raised expectantly.

 

Balin took this as invitation to start speaking. He weaved a story about their lives as simple merchants and pearl fishers, going to visit relatives in the Iron Hills and instead being beset by trials of squid and storms. He did not mention or explain Bilbo’s presence, but as the Man seemed not to notice.

 

“The kraken took your ship, you say?”

 

“Aye.” Thorin’s tone was surprisingly neutral, though his hands were clenched by his side, as if he was challenging the Man to disbelieve what they had gone through. “Our schooner was battered by rain and storm winds, and then we were pulled under. Almost killed.”

 

He hummed noncommittally. “That would have been difficult for the most seasoned of warriors – doubly so for merchants.”

 

Thorin’s eyes narrowed. “What are you suggesting?”

 

The Man shrugged and pushed off his barrel. There was a slight smile playing about his lips, but Bilbo could tell that he was suspicious of their motives – and Thorin saw this as well.

 

“You have not given us your name, bargeman.”

 

“I am called Bard.” He picked up strange-looking tool – it looked like an axe crossed with a hammer – and bowed with enough mocking to make Thorin’s jaw clench. “At your service.”

 

“Are you? Or are you going to tip us over the side and leave us to rot?”

 

“That depends.” He considered the sharper edge of his tool, stance relaxed.

 

Thorin took a step forward – consciously or no, Bilbo wasn’t sure. He wished he was nearer to the Captain, if only to stop him from doing something rash – something like trying to fight the person who could potentially assist them. Even if they did outnumber Bard.

 

“Depend on what?”

 

“On whether you are truly merchants… or pirates.”

 

Almost all the crew bristled at this accusation. Balin quickly stepped in – wise, as he was a better negotiator than Thorin, and more diplomatic than the other Dwarves as a whole. “Why would you say that, laddie?”

 

“Merchants do not sail the route you did. There are shipping lanes to the Iron Hills that are shorter and safer. Either you are extremely foolhardy or you are pirates.” Bard smiled. His hand was by his side, axe-hammer held loosely, but Bilbo could imagine him using it in a fight. “I don’t deal with pirates.”

 

“We are not pirates.” Thorin stepped forward again, ignoring warning looks from Balin _and_ Dwalin. “We are pirate killers.”

 

“Oh?” His tool went casually into his belt, and he just as casually leaned over a barrel, picking at something along its inner wall. “Is that so?”

 

“It is,” was the grim reply.

 

“Do you slay the ones who cross your path or is there one pirate in particular you’re looking for?” Though the Man was concentrating on his work, the snark in his voice was clear for all to hear. “Ancalagon the Black? Glaurung the Deceiver?”

 

Thorin’s chin lifted. “Smaug.”

 

Bard’s hand slipped, almost falling forward into the barrel. He straightened and stared at Thorin with horror in his eyes. “You’re going after that monster? A bunch of Dwarves and a – a fish, you’re all going to defeat _Smaug_?”

 

The ‘fish’ sighed.

 

“Bilbo is a Hobbit,” Thorin replied coolly. “Not a fish.”

 

Bard disregarded this. “You’re mad – all of you! You will lead him to our home – him and his fire!”

 

“We will not.”

 

“Hang on,” Bofur broke in, holding up a forefinger. “If you’ve heard of Smaug, how do you still have a barge and a home?”

 

Bilbo felt like hiding his face behind his hands. How was it that Dwarves were so incapable of being tactful? It was no wonder why they had such poor relations with just about everyone else.

 

The Man snorted. “You mean to ask why everything I love and own hasn’t been set on fire.”

 

Scratching the back of his neck, Bofur shrugged and said, “I wasn’t going to phrase it like that…” Bombur nudged him silent.

 

“We may be descendants of the Men of Dale, but Smaug considers us below him. Laketown is too poor for him to bother with, except for the occasional fishing boat he sets alight for sport.” His mouth twisted, open contempt and loathing in his face. “We have seen the damage he wreaks, however. Attacking rich merchants and razing anyone foolish enough to pursue him.” Bard said this pointedly, but Thorin was not swayed.

 

“By your leave or not, I will kill that _pirate_ ,” he said. “He has taken more from me than you will ever know.”

 

“That may be – but what is your plan? He has not been seen for years. He could have moved on from the remains of Erebor. He could be on the other side of the world, or dead for all you know!”

 

“You no more believe that than I do,” Thorin said certainly, slashing a hand through the air. “He is alive.”

 

“Then how will you kill him?” Bard challenged. “You have no ship – Laketown’s navy is full of old and useless _derelicts_ , not even worth becoming kindling. If you wake the Dragon, he will come and destroy us. Then he will destroy you.”

 

Balin stepped forward now, putting a hand on Thorin’s arm to forestall any angry assertions. “All we need is to get close to Erebor. We’re not looking to make a frontal assault – it wouldn’t be possible.” He paused for a moment, taking in worn boots and patched clothes. “You will be paid in full, of course.”

 

Bard didn’t look convinced. But he wasn’t demanding they leave his barge either.

 

“I know the bearing – I’m the crew’s navigator.” Balin’s smile was possibly kindly and confident enough to negate the scowls from most the Dwarves. “If you’re concerned about being noticed by Smaug, we won’t have to drop anchor at Erebor at all – a league away would be enough.”

 

“And you will all swim that distance?” Bard snorted. “I’ve heard that Dwarves are hardy, but even you would take near two hours.”

 

“Dwarves are natural sprinters, lad,” Glóin gruffly remarked, earning a sceptical look from Bard but no rebuttals or comments. None from him, at any rate.

 

  
“How far is a league?” Bilbo asked.

 

Looking surprised at Bilbo’s ability to speak – which was galling –, Bard nevertheless answered, “It’s about the distance from here to the horizon. As I said, even for a confident swimmer – and a Man-sized one at that – an hour would be pushing it.”

 

It took him awhile to process that explanation, and when he had, Bilbo was furious. He had gone for swimming holidays in the past, but this was too much! He was only a little Hobbit, after all. “You were going to make me swim that far without _telling_ me?”

 

Kíli looked puzzled. “But… you’re good at swimming. It’s what you _do_.”

 

Before Bilbo could come up with an angry reply – swimming _wasn’t_ all he did, thank you – Ori spoke up. “You did catch up with _Deathless_ quite easily,” he pointed out, “on the day you joined the quest.”

 

“It wasn’t that much of a distance!” Bilbo said sharply. “And I was able to rest once I was brought aboard.” This announcement was met with confusion – and made Bilbo even more exasperated. “If I have to swim a league – or even half of it – don’t you think I will be tired? Don’t you think that – should anything go wrong – I won’t be able to escape quickly even if I wanted to?”

 

This had alarm breaking out on their faces, and the crew exchanged considering whispers. Good. Who had come up with this idiotic plan, anyway?

 

“Wait,” Bard said, interrupting the Dwarves’ muttered arguments. “Is this ‘Hobbit’ your assassin?”

 

Bilbo’s “No!” was only a shade faster than Thorin’s. Their eyes met, and Bilbo was able to see surprise in pale eyes, as if Thorin hadn’t meant to interject as loudly as he had, or even at all. He himself wasn’t sure how he felt about having Thorin defending him.

 

The Captain looked away first, collecting himself. “The Hobbit is our pathfinder.” His gaze darted to Bilbo, then just as quickly returned to Bard’s face. “That is all.”

 

“A pathfinder? What path are you looking for?”

 

No one answered. The Dwarves either turned their faces away or glared belligerently – mostly the latter.

 

Bard was unimpressed and unmoved. “You are seeking assistance from me. I need to be convinced.”

 

“Then we will acquire the services of another.”

 

“Oh?” He crossed his arms over his chest. Bilbo was amazed; this Man looked able to out-stubborn Dwarves, and with a smile on his face. “Where will you get this help I wonder? We are still a ways away from Laketown, and the only other settlement nearby is the Elf-king’s domain. They are not so kind to Dwarves, I have heard.”

 

“Is this your way of demanding more pay?” Dwalin – who, Bilbo now realised, did not have his axes any more – squared his shoulders. He flexed his fingers, tattoos stretching.

 

“No. I want an explanation,” Bard said firmly, voice level and somehow undemanding. Even faced with thirteen quarrelsome Dwarves, he was not intimidated, still managing to keep his smile. “Then I will take you even to the Dragon’s jaws, should you wish it.”

 

“Why?” Thorin’s fists clenched tighter, tensing with the rest of him.

 

The Man finally looked away, staring off in the direction of Erebor (or so Bilbo assumed). There was something like pain in the set of his jaw. “You are not the only ones with reason to want Smaug dead.”

 

Silence stretched between Bard and Thorin for a long time, long enough to be worrying. Bilbo and the crew looked to their Captain, waiting for his decision, and all noticed when his hands abruptly loosed.

 

“Very well,” Thorin said. “Let us talk.”

 

* * *

 

In the end, Bard agreed to help them. He even suggested a better plan than the Dwarves’ – that they would disguise themselves as whalers and carefully make their way to the location detailed in Thorin’s map – which made him intelligent and perceptive in Bilbo’s opinion. More intelligent and perceptive than whoever had decided that he could be ordered to swim outrageous distances.

 

So off they went as the win was in their favour. It was entirely possible that their guise would not fool Smaug, so they hoped to use the cover of darkness for as long as they could.

 

Bilbo was just nodding off when he heard and felt the thud of boots approaching. It should have been something he could easily ignore, given all the time he’d spent with the Dwarves, but these did not sound as heavy as he was used to. He blinked up at Bard.

 

“I’ve never met a Hobbit before. Didn’t think they were real.”

 

Bilbo looked back at the stern of the barge, where Bifur was operating the tiller. “I didn’t think you’d let a Dwarf steer your barge.”

 

“He seems to be enjoying himself,” Bard chuckled. “And does as good a job as I would. How do you know about sailing?”

 

“I’ve accompanied these Dwarves for quite a while.” Quite a long while from that day on the beach, now that he thought about it. He missed Primula. He missed home. “And have learned much from them.”

 

“Including how to be tight-lipped when answering questions?”

 

“Exactly,” Bilbo replied, unable to keep a smile from his face. “You are the first Man I have ever met, though we’ve always been aware of you Big Folk.”

 

Bard laughed again, loud enough to catch the attention of Thorin (though the Dwarf Captain did nothing but stare at the Man for just a moment, possibly wondering how he had ended up trusting him). “You’re the one who’s small! You’re smaller than my youngest!”

 

“I’m normal-sized,” Bilbo said peaceably. “You have children?”

 

“Aye, three of them,” he said with a fond smile. “A handful, when they were younger, but now they’re more than capable of running the household.”

 

Remembering what had been discussed earlier, Bilbo’s voice was careful and quiet when he asked, “And their mother?”

 

“Their mother is headstrong and encourages their mischief, more often than not. I’ll enjoy coming home to all of them soon.”

 

 _Is_. Bilbo discreetly sighed, and ignored the knowing look directed down at him.

 

“And how about your family?”

 

“A multitude of cousins, aunts, and uncles, I’m afraid. Hobbit don’t lack for relatives.” He smiled, but wondered if any of those relatives were missing him. Hamfast was no doubt doing a good job of looking after Bag End. Bilbo hoped no one was making trouble for him.

 

“You’ve no brothers or sisters?”

 

“Oh, no, no.” Not for want of asking, when he’d been too young to know any better. “My mother always said that I was more than enough for the both of them.”

 

“Troublemaker, were you?”

 

“I was small.” He caught Bard’s smirk. “ _Smaller_. I used to wander as far as I could swim and sometimes further, making up songs and stories. But my father would always find me before suppertime.”

 

The man crossed his arms, turning towards the aft of the barge, towards their approaching destination. “Wandering far seems to have followed you into your adult life.”

 

But now there was no one to stop him from going too far and hurting himself – and, as he’d been told, no real guarantee that he’d be able to go back home, before suppertime or otherwise. “I –”

 

“Look!” Fíli said excitedly. He stood by the side of the barge, Ori beside him, both pointing. “In the water!”

 

Everyone rushed to the starboard side, tipping the barge slightly. Bard’s strides were long and he crossed the deck far quicker than Bilbo could even dream of moving above water. There were shouts and questions and exclamations of awe long before Bilbo even reached the bulwark. He looked over.

 

“It’s as the prophecy says,” Óin called out, face lit in blues and greens. “The lights in the deep!”

 

“But…” Bilbo laughed a little. “Those are jellyfish! A whole bloom of them!”

 

“Jellyfish?” Thorin asked. Bilbo hadn’t noticed that they were beside each other. Thorin’s finally-dry hair was loose about his shoulders, the slight waviness softening his features and strangely endearing. “They cannot glow like this.”

 

“They can. I’ve seen it.” It was safer to stare at the water than at Thorin’s jaw, so Bilbo looked down. “Though I didn’t know they lived in this part of the world.” His tone grew wistful. “I remember watching them as a Hobbitling, with my parents. Some jellyfish carry stings, but we could swim amongst these with no trouble whatsoever.” Some of his homesickness drifted away with the jellyfish, and while pain still bloomed in his heart at the thought of Bag End, it did not feel insurmountable.

 

“I should think that they are newly arrived. There were never any in the water when I lived in Erebor, and no mention of them until recently.”

 

It gave him a sense of peace to watch the little rounds of light float past, leisurely opening and closing. Bilbo lifted his gaze, a little caught out when he saw that Thorin was looking at him. He smiled. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

 

Thorin opened his mouth but paused, as if his voice had caught in his throat. The glow from the jellies below cast a pale light over his face, eyes turned bright and enchanting and full of an emotion Bilbo couldn’t place.

 

“Aye,” Thorin said finally. “They are beautiful.”

 

Beautiful as they were, Bilbo could not forget what they meant. The bloom of jellyfish stretched ever forward, leading the way to ‘the keep’, if the prophecy was any indication. Soon it would be time for him to fulfil his task as detailed in the contract he’d signed – soon he would look for Smaug and the _Arkenstone_.

 

The Dwarves soon tired of the sight, most choosing to steal what sleep they could, but Thorin remained standing by Bilbo. Neither spoke, but Bilbo drew comfort from the unbent line of Thorin’s back. He found that he could not regret his decisions as they’d led him here, at the side of someone he would follow to the death.

 

Someone he could call Captain.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo fulfils his contract by finding the path - then goes above and beyond duty by finding something more...

All too soon, they reached Erebor.

 

The morning had dawned, and the sun was a tiny yellow disc that turned the sky red and orange and ominous. The water reflected this accordingly, and it all looked like fire melting into the remaining darkness. It was like the fire that had engulfed the _White Warg_ on the night Thorin had almost died. It was like the fire that Smaug wielded when he wanted to _incinerate_ his enemies. Dread settled low in Bilbo’s belly.

 

A hush had descended over the Dwarves. This would have been their home if Smaug hadn’t happened (only Thorin, Balin, and Dwalin had lived here before), and it wasn’t surprising that they felt strongly about it.

 

Since the Elves had taken their weapons and left them without armour, it had only taken the addition of some (overlarge) furs to ‘transform’ them into whalers. They were lucky – as they had been through the whole quest – since Bard was transporting those furs, bartered for the mead that had filled the barrels on deck.

 

Bard was at the tiller again, though not allowed to look at Thorin’s map – which Bilbo thought silly. He was instead directed by Balin’s instructions, though Bilbo couldn’t see what was so special about their stopping point. He was unable to differentiate any part of the cliff from another – and this side of the island was nothing but one large cliff face. He only knew that it was their stopping point, and therefore time for him to disembark.

 

Thorin was again beside him. The Dwarf made no comment about his doubtlessly terrified expression, instead drawing a chain from within his tunic. It was thin and silvery, and upon it hung the angular key that had belonged to his father, Thráin.

 

Bilbo’s dread did not lessen, but was joined by astonishment when Thorin lifted the chain from his neck and settled it over Bilbo’s head. The key was heavy and warm against his chest. He touched it with fore- and middle finger before gazing up at Thorin. His heart beat in his throat, preventing him from speech.

 

“Keep it carefully,” Thorin advised. “And be on your guard when you enter. We don’t know if Smaug is in there or even alive –” his expression displayed clearly how he did not believe that possibility, “– but do not reveal yourself to him if he is.”

 

Bilbo nodded mutely, though he couldn’t stop annoyance from flicking through him. He was hardly about to shout his presence to someone who’d gladly kill him. He briefly wished he was able to carry – and properly wield – a weapon.

 

“It has been years and years, but I know Smaug. He will not have changed. He is…” Thorin paused, choosing his words, and lamely finished, “very dangerous.”

 

The others wished him luck. Bofur squeezed his shoulder and winked, and Bilbo felt a little better.

 

He splashed into the bracingly cold water, feeling the key and its chain keenly. He glanced back up at the barge, somewhat comforted to be met by a line of worried faces. This was his crew and Captain, these were his friends.

 

“We’ll be by those rocks,” Bard called down, pointing. They did not seem like ‘rocks’ to Bilbo but cliffs in their own right, small and surrounded by churning water. They would probably hide the barge quite easily, as was detailed in the plan. “If you get into any trouble at all, you go straight there.”

 

He nodded in place of a verbal confirmation of understanding the instructions, and watched as the barge slowly floated away, waving back at Fíli and Kíli. Bilbo let his arm drop back into the water and took a deep breath, gathering all his courage to begin his search.

 

He was utterly surprised when someone called out to him – and doubly surprised when it was Thorin. The wind snatched at the Dwarf’s voice, making it sound strangely tight.

 

“Be careful, Bilbo!”

 

Bilbo almost thought he’d heard incorrectly, but no – that had been his first name, and that had been Thorin using it. Bizarrely it made Bilbo want to laugh; if only Thorin had chosen a less perilous time to decide to act like a decent person. He shook his head wryly and managed a small wave, now finally able to reply: “I’ll be fine!"

 

He _would_ be fine. All he had to do was find the entrance, swim through, and carefully look around.

 

How hard could that be?

 

* * *

 

Diving immediately cut Bilbo’s anxiety.

 

This was not too-salty water surrounding forbidding trees that held possibly-dangerous Elves. This was not the stormy depths with churning surface waves and dangers lurking beneath. The sea here was calm and cool, blue and clear. Bilbo let himself drift for a moment in the quiet, tucked comfortably beneath a blanket of water, light rippling across his eyelids. He was reminded of the vast power of the ocean and drew from that power, let it fill him until there was nothing but determination. He opened his eyes.

 

The cliff face had continued down here, but now Bilbo could see evidence of collapse in the rock. Whole parts of the black stone had broken away to reveal the lighter grey beneath.

 

How were the Dwarves so sure that their back entrance remained? If it was covered or caved in, what was there to do but return to Bard’s barge? Would they try for a frontal assault then, or would they give up?

 

Bilbo shook his head. Now was not the time for ‘what ifs’. He made a half turn in the water to survey the rock wall as a whole, and did not at all curse the Dwarves for not detailing what this door of theirs looked like. (He didn’t know if that was Dwarvish secrecy or just negligence, but he’d be sure to make his displeasure known. Later. If he could.)

 

The sun’s rays cut through the water in rippling beams that slanted onto the rock. Bilbo let out a small jet of bubbles as he looked for anything that stood out, anything that hinted at a keyhole instead of a simple hole in the rock. When he couldn’t find it, he swam lower still and started again.

 

He needn’t have worried. It took an hour of searching but he noticed a cut pattern in the rock that looked deliberate instead of having broken off. He followed it, zigzagging low enough that the sandy floor was visible, then _finally_ saw the door with a thin seam running along its perimeter.

 

Bilbo’s hands were steady; the chain was long enough for him to fit the key without taking it off his neck. He slotted it in the hole until it wouldn’t go further, remembering Bofur’s instructions about doors, then twisted his hand. There was little resistance. His left hand, pressed against the smooth stone, felt a small vibration, a click. Then the door swung outwards.

 

No bubbles escaped but he felt water rush out, strangely tepid as it swirled around him. The entrance to the passageway was taller than Thorin and wider than Dwalin; more than big enough for Bilbo to pass through. He hesitated; the light from outside only went in a little ways, clear blue gradually darkening to menacing black. There was no telling what lay beyond the gloom, at the end of the passageway – _Smaug_ – or even whether it was still unobstructed.

 

A thread of ice slipped along Bilbo’s spine. He absently wished that he could take a breath to steel himself; the key, clenched in his grip, pressed into his palm.

 

 _Be on your guard. Be careful, Bilbo_.

 

His eyes adjusted quickly as he passed the limit of the light from outside. The walls of the passage were smooth with the occasional crack or fissure, collapsed in some parts but the fallen rocks were never numerous enough to completely block his way. He squeezed past, hoping he’d not have to backtrack through the smaller gaps in a hurry.

 

Bilbo swam on for long enough that he started wondering what the Dwarves were doing – whether they in turn were wondering about him.

 

The passage took an abrupt turn then started climbing. A small spot of light hovered high above; the exit? Bilbo both hoped for and dreaded the possibility. He nonetheless put on a burst of speed, holding both arms out in front of him, heart thudding against his ribs and in his ears. The light grew and the walls widened until Bilbo reached the exit, continuing upwards until he reached the surface of the water. He squeezed the key again, for luck, and slowly rose to peek at his surroundings.

 

Bilbo’s remaining breath rushed out of him, turned to bubbles instead of an exhale that would have almost certainly echoed throughout the huge cavern he’d found.

 

This place was larger than any Hobbit dwelling (Bilbo had to fight the urge to call out a ‘hello’). The walls and ceiling were the same black stone that formed the cliffs outside, dripping down in thin stalactites and emerging from the water in thicker stalagmites, sometimes joining to form uneven pillars. The walls had horizontal streaks of white and grey amongst splashes of yellow, designating how high the water rose when the ride came in, but the highest of these only reached a third of the cavern’s height. Small creatures scuttled in crevices, pale and many-legged, their shapes not quite discernible in the flickering light filling the cavern – but Bilbo was more concerned with something else. Something massive and imposing.

 

It could only be the _Arkenstone_.

 

The ship was larger than anything Bilbo had ever seen, bigger than any shipwreck he’d visited, bigger than _Deathless_. It had four masts and three gun decks, too many cannons poking through their ports. The wood was deep brown, highlighted with deep blue paint and silverwork. If ever a ship could be beautiful, this was the epitome of that; so much care and dedication must have gone into its construction. It was no wonder that this had been the pride of the Ereborean navy – and coveted by Smaug.

 

Bilbo rose to fill his lungs, then quickly ducked into the water until only his eyes and the tips of his ears were showing. No one was about, and he’d heard no voices, but he didn’t to be careless.

 

His flippers brought him to the ship and he kept to its shadow. It would give him some cover as he crept along, even if he could no longer see half the cavern.

 

There must have been an exit from here that was large enough for the _Arkenstone_ – but it begged the question why the ship was hidden here in the first place. If Smaug truly was the terror of the seas, why wasn’t he out amassing riches? He could not be dead; from the tales of his character, he would have gone down with the ship. If his crew had (successfully) staged a mutiny, they would be gallivanting off with the ship instead of bringing it here.

 

Water dripped somewhere in the cavern and Bilbo frowned. Was it simply that Smaug was between looting and pillaging?

 

Now that he had gotten used to the brightness – but still had not found its source – Bilbo could see that the walls somehow reflected light. No, not reflected. They _gleamed_ , especially where the water lapped at the walls and was turned yellow –

 

Bilbo’s eyes went wide. The walls had not been turned yellow. They were not gleaming.

 

That was _gold_.

 

There were piles and piles of it, disarranged in mounds and mountains against the walls. Bilbo wasn’t sure how he’d not noticed it before; the gold lined even the bottom of this cave, sunken in the water, shimmering and shining. There were coins and cups and a myriad of unknown shapes, gems winking in their midst.

 

This was no hiding place. This was Smaug’s hoard, and the _Arkenstone_ was nothing but another stolen treasure.

 

A voice sounded from the depths of the cavern, echoing and filling it until there was no other sound in Bilbo’s world. “You are not as silent as you think you are, little thief.”

 

Bilbo immediately stilled. This may have been his first experience with this colossal voice, smooth and dangerous and terrible, but he knew already that it belonged to Smaug. He needed to swim carefully if he wanted to come out of Erebor alive and whole.

 

“Your smell… I have never encountered its like. You must have travelled far.”

 

Bilbo kept silent.

 

“Ah, but your heart beats quicker, just like so many before you. You don’t need to fear me, little thief. Come, come away from the shadow of my ship. Let me see you.”

 

Even the most naïve of fish knew better than to swim amongst anemone; Bilbo stayed where he was. His claws snagged on Thorin’s chain as his thoughts raced desperately. “I’m… I’m no one, no one important. Certainly not as important as you, O’ Smaug – Chiefest and Greatest of Calamities.”

 

Smaug’s laugh echoed around the cavern, bouncing off the walls and pillars. Bilbo was unable to locate him.

 

“Very good,” said the pirate. “Very polite, even if you have stolen your way into my mountain unseen. I must commend you for your skills; it’s almost as if you found a back way.”

 

Bilbo swallowed, trying to be brave. He would not slip beneath the surface and swim away as quickly as his flippers could manage. He had a duty to carry out. H would not flee. “I only came to see you – to see if the stories of you are true.”

 

“Stories?” Smaug’s tone has sharpened from its lilting boredom. Bilbo could almost feel him leaning forward, eyes sharp and intent. “What stories have you heard, well-mannered thief?”

 

“I was – was told that you are the fiercest pirate in all the seas.” Bilbo chafed his lip against one fang. “That you utterly destroy your enemies at the helm of the _Arkenstone_.”

 

“And do you like my ship?” If Smaug’s tone had insinuated that he was truly leaning forward, now his voice suggested that he’d be face-to-face with Bilbo, pushing him back with the force of a doubtlessly crazed gaze. “Isn’t she the most beautiful thing you’ve ever laid your eyes upon?”

 

Once again, Bilbo fought his instincts. The ship was _not_ Smaug’s… and it was not the loveliest thing Bilbo had seen. He remembered the glow of jellyfish lighting the night sea, and pressed on. “I had been told that you defeated the Dwarves that lived here before, not once but twice, and did not believe those tales.”

 

“And you do now?”

 

“Oh yes.” He hoped his attempts at flattery were not too obvious. “You are every bit as devious and dangerous as your reputation. I know now that I was gravely, gravely mistaken.”

 

Smaug’s laugh tapered off into a growl. “You are also mistaken in thinking I am so easily fooled. You are a thief and a liar, and you reek of Dwarf.”

 

His breath seized in his lungs, fear curling clammy fingers around his throat. He swallowed. “There are Dwarves aplenty in the world,” Bilbo offered tentatively.

 

“But there are very particular ones that would see me at the bottom of the sea.” Smaug paused artfully, and in the brief silence Bilbo was alarmed to hear a soft splash. “Could it be that you have been sent here as an assassin instead of a spy?”

 

“I’m – I’m no killer.”

 

“Finally, some truth from your lips.” Smaug – or something else – must have shifted, because now came the soft chinking sound of metal, as if the coins were sliding over each other. “And now for some truth from mine: show yourself.” There was no menace in his voice, only cold promise. “Show yourself, or I will gut you and burn your waiting friends.”

 

“What’s to stop you from doing that anyway?” Bilbo asked, bravery wavering with images of fire.

 

“Absolutely nothing. You’ll have to trust me.” There was another low splash, another small slide of coins. “Just as you must trust that I know you’re in the water, just by the port bower.”

 

Bilbo swallowed again, tracking the rode of the anchor, a length of chain and rope twisted together and disappearing into the water. He did not think that he’d be able to turn and swim away, not when Smaug had this unnatural power of somehow knowing where he was. Who knew what other abilities he possessed?

 

“Just come forward,” Smaug crooned invitingly. “Into the light.”

 

He had no choice but to play along – if only to buy time. If only to see Smaug himself.

 

“Oh. You are disappointingly normal.”

 

Whereas Smaug was not. He looked as tall as Bard, perched on his treasure and surrounded by gold that disappeared into the water – but this wasn’t enough. He dripped jewellery, chains and rings and hoops and studs, gently clinking at every shift. Despite his ‘disappointment’ he had a grin waiting for Bilbo, teeth small and ending in sharp points. Shiny scars covered half his face and continued down his neck; if they went further, they were covered by clothes red as fresh blood.

 

In that cruel face were two eyes that fixed on Bilbo; one golden, one white.

 

“You are too small to be an Elf, and too delicate to be a Dwarf.” Smaug rubbed his chin with a gloved finger, still grinning. “If anything you look like a spotty child. Am I correct?”

 

Bilbo shook his head. There was no one near Smaug that he could see; was his crew on board the _Arkenstone_? Were they outside?

 

“No, of course you’re not a Man, child or otherwise. The smell is wrong.” He sniffed loudly and leaned forward. His eyes held Bilbo still. “Such a curious little thing you are. I’m almost tempted to let you go.”

 

“…almost?”

 

Smaug continued leaning forward, unfolding himself from his seat. “Did you really think I wouldn’t gut you? You may not be a Dwarf but you are working with them, or for them. I cannot let that pass.” His feet were oddly bare, stepped into the water, wading in until the water reached his thighs. “I will be sad to lose such an amusing creature, but…” His smile grew. “I will survive.”

 

Bilbo backtracked as slowly as Smaug advanced, trying to remember where exactly the passage’s exit was.

 

“First I will kill you,” Smaug announced calmly, “then the Dwarves. Then I think I shall visit the Laketown.”

 

 _Laketown?_ That was Bard’s home, where his wife and children were waiting for him. “No! They’re – they’re not involved in this! You can’t –”

 

“Destroy them? You cannot stop me.” Smaug dropped his gloves into the water. “Even if they did not help you and your Dwarves, I’ve grown tired of their useless town. Killing them will be a blessing.” His head tipped. “Killing you will be fun.”

 

Bilbo licked dry lips. “I can swim faster than you,” he said, as if this would somehow dissuade the pirate from killing him – but it was true. He hoped it was true.

 

“I wouldn’t count on that.” Smaug’s mouth was stretched wide enough to almost split his face, and was _growing_ bigger and bigger. With Bilbo watching in horror, Smaug’s head elongated, skin growing as red as his clothes, arms shrinking. His eyes grew rounder but their colour remained, golden and milky white staring and staring as the Man _transformed_ into – into an eel.

 

Smaug fell forward into the water and Bilbo snapped into action. He didn’t dare look back, darting along the _Arkenstone_ ’s hull as quickly as he’d ever swum in his life. Now that he was aware of them, gold glinted at him from the bed of the cavern, and he could almost feel teeth snapping at his flippers when he dove down into the passage.

 

Frightened and panicky, Bilbo felt that the passage was now longer than it was. He scraped his shoulder and tail against jagged rocks but ignored the pain. There would be more pain if he was caught; he didn’t know if he was imagining laughter following him.

 

He burst from the door – with a fleeting thought of wanting to close the door, if only he’d had the time – and immediately swam surfaceward, gathering speed until he breached and completely cleared the water.

 

For a moment there was only sun and sky, air rushing through Bilbo’s hair, and then he was submerged again. Where were the miniature cliffs? Where was the barge?

 

Bilbo risked a glance, looking over his shoulder. There was that grinning face, that long, slippery body half covered in scars. Smaug was larger than any eel Bilbo had ever come across, and those he had experience with had been shy and wished to avoid conflict. He’d even _eaten_ an eel once – and now he could be eaten by one.

 

He lunged out of the water. “Help!” he shouted, hoping his voice would carry and echo off the rock-cliffs, alerting the Dwarves and Bard. “Help me!”

 

“They won’t hear you,” Smaug taunted – somehow able to speak in this form. “I will catch you, and eat you, and then I will kill every single one of those Dwarves.”

 

Brilliant anger engulfed Bilbo, almost drowning out the fear – almost – but he kept his course. He’d been telling the truth earlier; he was no killer. No matter how much Bilbo wanted to defend his friends, he was not brave enough to stand and fight Smaug. He needed help.

 

At last, _at last_ he caught sight of the barge. Tears of relief blurred his vision and he swallowed the saltwater in his mouth before crying out: “He’s following me! Help!”

 

Pain startled through Bilbo; Smaug had clamped his jaws over his tail, just above his flippers. He twisted. Thrashed. Smaug’s teeth pierced his flesh and tore into it but Bilbo managed to wrench free with a cry. He was bleeding, he knew, but he could not stop.

 

He could not stop.

 

Bilbo looked forward, looked towards the barge. He saw the flash of a blade before realising that it was a harpoon sailing through the air. He could just see, beyond it, Bard standing with his foot on the bulwark, arm outstretched. He’d thrown the harpoon.

 

Bilbo ducked.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They must stop Smaug.

He was dimly aware of arms grabbing at his shoulders.

 

“Can you hear me, laddie?”

 

Bilbo groaned weakly in reply, wondering if Óin was able to hear it. He hissed as something was secured around his tail; a piece of cloth, maybe. He wanted to tell them to use seaweed but the words stuck in his throat. Had he really survived?

 

“Bilbo, you must open your eyes.”

 

There was Thorin, again using his first name. Perhaps he hadn’t survived. Perhaps this was the afterlife, where impossibilities happened willy-nilly. But there shouldn’t have been any pain after death, should there?

 

He groaned again and cracked his eyelids open with an enormous amount of effort. Everything was too-bright; it was safer to switch between the two shadowy figures by his side (peripherally noting that other dark shapes hovered beyond them). One was Óin and one was Thorin, though Bilbo could not discern their faces or features.

 

“You’re safe,” Thorin said, his voice a calming anchor that Bilbo latched on to. “You’re safe, that thing, the serpent chasing you, it turned back – but you must tell me what happened. Did you find the _Arkenstone_? Smaug?”

 

“Is it dead?”

 

“Is what –” There was a huff. “No. Bard did his best. The harpoon may have grazed it, maybe, but it was too slender to skewer.” One hand one Bilbo’s shoulder tightened and pinched to the point of pain. “Now tell me everything.”

 

Bilbo tried to twist from Thorin’s grip but was held fast. He blinked rapidly until the indistinct images above him coalesced into Thorin’s sharp features. He drew comfort from the heavy brow and strong jaw, and felt his heartbeat slow. “It – he was Smaug.”

 

“What was Smaug? What did he do?”

 

“The eel.” The ruthless creature that had chased him and mocked him and bitten him – Bilbo’s tail throbbed. “The thing you called a serpent, he wasn’t a serpent – he was an eel, he was Smaug. He transformed right in front of me.”

 

“That’s…” Thorin shook his head. “That’s impossible.”

 

“It’s possible. Believe me, it’s possible. It’s real.” No matter how much it felt like a nightmare; he half expected Smaug to return and grow to a hundred times his size, wrapping around the barge and crushing them all to death. Bilbo pushed this picture from his head, rising up on one elbow, sinking his claws into Thorin’s sleeve just shy of piercing the Dwarf’s skin. “I saw it. He is a Man, but he is also an eel.”

 

“An eel,” Thorin replied flatly, disbelievingly. “The long fish. Like to hide in holes in the rock and sand, edible after a half-hour over the fire? That kind of eel?”

 

Oh, they had no time for this! “Thorin, please just listen, he – Smaug promised he was going to kill us all! And then he’s going to burn Laketown!”

 

“ _What_?” This was Bard; the Man kneeled on Bilbo’s other side (Óin having moved to devote his full attention to Bilbo’s injuries), knees dropping to the deck with a loud thump. “When? Why?”

 

“If he’s turned back, he’s gone to get the _Arkenstone_.” There was no doubt about it. There was only one way for Smaug to destroy an entire town. “He’ll point it in the direction of Laketown, and then he’ll kill everyone.” Bilbo’s gaze dropped. “Because… because you agreed to help us. Because he said he wanted to.”

 

“We have to leave,” Bard said tersely. “We need to warn them, evacuate.” He stretched an arm out to one of the Dwarves – Bombur – half-rising to his feet. “Weigh anchor, I’ll loose the sails and –”

 

“No.”

 

Bilbo thought he’d heard incorrectly. He turned to Thorin, who had a hard look on his countenance. While this should not have been an unusual expression on the Dwarf he’d seen face down many an enemy, Bilbo thought that it was edged with despair. As if Thorin was desperate, or haunted.

 

“What did you say?” Bard dropped back on his knees, incredulity clenching his fists.

 

“No,” Thorin repeated, flat and dead and resolute, unwilling to compromise. It was as if he did not care about the Men of Laketown, did not care that he was as good as condemning them to death. “We have to take that ship.”

 

Winded and injured as he was, even Bilbo knew that this was an incredibly foolish and impossible plan – just as the earlier plan of swimming to and entering Erebor had been stupid and stupidly impractical.

 

A moment of clarity dawned on Bilbo; Thorin must have somehow come up with the idea that Hobbits were able to swim leagues without trouble. Now he believed thirteen Dwarves, a Man, and a Bilbo were enough to take on Smaug.

 

“Really?” Bard’s forced politeness made Bilbo wince. “And how are we going to do that? Have you hidden weapons within your person, so that you might board the _Arkenstone_?” He laughed. “Even if we did make a stand, what’s to stop Smaug from setting us alight?”

 

“We’ll stay out of range.”

 

Bard shook his head. “And what? This is a barge, in case you have forgotten. I have barrels and furs – no cannons. No guns.”

 

Incredulity was an ugly expression on Thorin’s face. “We're not going to open fire on the _Arkenstone_.” He said this as if it was a straightforward truth, as if the best possible course of action was taking the barge and sailing it alongside the _Arkenstone_ and – and not do _anything_.

 

This plan was getting worse and worse by the second. “What are you talking about?” Bilbo asked, wishing Thorin would see sense. Every minute they spent arguing was a minute in Smaug’s favour, even if the other Dwarves had weighed anchor and dropped the sails. They needed to move quickly, before Laketown was left a smoking ruin.

 

“Even if we were on _Deathless_ instead of this piddling barge, we would not shoot at the _Arkenstone_.” Thorin said all this in a matter-of-fact tone, as if he was being in any way reasonable. “It’s too valuable. We’ll have to barter for it.”

 

Bilbo gaped.

 

“Barter? You’re going to barter with _Smaug_?”

 

“It can be done.”

 

“You don’t have anything to barter _with_!”

 

Thorin’s jaw was set. “I will have that ship.”

 

“It should be at the bottom of the sea!” Bard exploded; even kneeling he was taller than Thorin, looming over him, so close they were face-to-face. They looked almost alike, Man and Dwarf, dark hair and heavy brows and downturned mouths; amidst Bilbo’s pain and fear he could note with some hysteria that this observation was not relevant at this time.

 

Thorin did not look impressed or cowed. His chin was raised defiantly, bearing noble even if his suggestions were anything but. “The _Arkenstone_ was a symbol – _is_ a symbol of Erebor. It is my birthright –”

 

“Your birthright – your symbol is in the hands of your enemy! An enemy that will blow us out of the water, given half the chance!” Bard threw out an arm in Erebor’s direction. “He’d blow us out of the water even if it meant having to chase us across the world!”

 

“I would rather die than see that ship at the bottom of the ocean!”

 

“Well, good, because at the rate you’re going you _will_ die!” Bard rushed to his feet. “You may be Captain of your crew, but this is _my_ barge. We’re going to Laketown. Now.”

 

* * *

 

“Thorin.”

 

The Dwarf didn’t look away from the gathering clouds that turned the sky grey and dark. “Bilbo.”

 

“Why can’t you see sense? The _Arkenstone_ is in Smaug’s hands and there is no way to take it. Even if you kill him, some other enemy will come and snatch it from your grasp, and then this whole sorry story will repeat.” Bilbo thought about putting his hand on Thorin’s elbow, then reconsidered. “You cannot risk innocent lives for your own selfish purposes. The people of Laketown – they’re worth more than that ship.”

 

“You don’t understand,” Thorin said, low. “‘ _That ship_ ’ was the pride of Erebor. I watched it sail out of harbour with my father at the helm – then it returned with Smaug. I need to take it back. I need to reclaim it.”

 

“ _Why_?”

 

Thorin shook his head, lips held in a tense line. He either could not answer or didn’t want to; both possibilities had exasperation coursing through Bilbo. To him Thorin was acting out of character, even this was based off only several months’ worth of acquaintance. The Dwarf he knew was brash and strong headed, but he was also kind and (usually) intelligent. What had happened?

 

“Why, Thorin?”

 

He closed his eyes. “It’s… it’s all I have left.”

 

Now Bilbo felt the overwhelming urge to hit Thorin – and did. There was surprise in pale eyes, confusion and anger too. Bilbo just glared, fist raised to again thump into Thorin’s arm if needed. “What about your people – the Dwarves in the Blue Mountains? What about your _crew_ , who would and have followed you to the ends of the earth?” _What about me_? “You have them.” _You have me_.

 

Thorin did not reply, wavering. “You don’t understand,” he said finally, but did not sound so sure of himself. “I –”

 

“Sail ahoy!” Nori shouted. He had climbed the short mast earlier for a higher vantage point. Everyone followed the line of his arm and saw a bone-chilling sight; a man-o’-war bearing down on them, sails unfurled to catch every bit of wind. “ _Arkenstone_ approaching!”

 

From this angle, Bilbo was able to see the figurehead (having been unable to do so before in his terror). It was a single figure, on either side of which were what looked like cannons; the spouts for the liquid fire, perhaps. The Arkenstone advance and Bilbo saw a Dwarvish warrior painted gold, bearing an axe aloft. But its face had been despoiled, given sharp teeth and gouged eyes – almost like a dragon’s face.

 

“She’s gaining!” Kíli turned to Bard, hair twisting as it was whipped in the wind. “Can’t we go faster?”

 

Bard looked grim. “Unless I lose all my cargo – and all if you – she’ll catch us up. There’s nothing more to do.” His words were resigned and fatalistic, but his grip on the tiller was strong, and there was hope still in his eyes.

 

“We have to make a stand,” Fíli said. “ _Something_! Something to slow them!”

 

“Do you have more harpoons?” Dori asked. “Or anything that can be used as a weapon, anything?”

 

“Below deck. There are two more harpoons, one close to shattering. And there are some broadaxes and adzes, but – those are tools for my barrelmaking! They’re not going to do you good!”

 

“It will do us _some_ good!” Dwalin roared. “I’ll not go down without a fight –”

 

Bilbo, having expected these sentiments to be echoed from the Dwarf beside him, turned to see why Thorin was keeping his silence, to see what was wrong. He blinked at the empty space, and blinked again as ice and fire spread through his blood. He was alone by the bulwark. “Thorin – where’s Thorin?”

 

Most everyone on deck froze.

 

Finally Ori broke the semi-silence, hesitatingly asking, “He’s not got below deck? To fetch the weapons?”

 

“There!” Kíli’s eyes were wide and frightened, the colour snatched from his face; he looked too young. “In the water – swimming to the ship!”

 

“Is he _mad_?” Dwalin appeared to speak for the entire crew (and Bard), as they watched their Captain; a dark speck approaching the overlarge brown-and-blue ship. What could he be planning? Did he even have a plan that wasn’t completely idiotic?

 

“I’ll go after him,” Bilbo declared, pushing aside the way his voice wobbled. He put his hands on the bulwark and heaved himself onto it, and breathed. Then jumped –!

 

Or… not?

 

Bofur’s grip was tight around Bilbo, pinning his arms to his sides. “What are you doing?”

 

“It’s too dangerous!”

 

“Let go! I’m the only one fast enough to catch up to him!”

 

“And then what?” Bofur asked, shaking Bilbo gently. “You can’t drag him back. If he reaches the _Arkenstone_ before you, you won’t be able to climb after him.”

 

“But – he’ll die!” he burst out, still struggling to free himself. “No matter what happens, whether he gets crushed or burned or stabbed, he’ll die! And you all want to sit aside while that happens?”

 

“He’s reached the ship,” Nori announced, and the deck fell silent. Bilbo stopped struggling.

 

“Can you see what he’s doing?” Balin’s face was pinched, worry plain for all to see. “Has he been noticed?”

 

Nori’s pause was nerve-racking, every blink and heartbeat that filled the silence tormenting Bilbo as they passed steadily on. He himself had his gaze fixed on the ship, eyes straining to catch sight of the Captain, but couldn’t see him.

 

Neither could Nori – neither could Fíli or Kíli, for all three had the keenest eyes on board.

 

Was it all over? Had their Captain fallen and failed? Would they now be crushed and burned by the _Arkenstone_? Would their enemy then blithely move on and kill hundreds more, unrelenting and unchecked?

 

Bilbo could almost hear Smaug’s piercing laughter.

 

 _We’re going to die_ , he thought.

 

The _Arkenstone_ exploded.

 

The force and the noise of it was enough to rock the barge, making more than one person flinch backwards. It made what happened to Azog’s ship look tiny in comparison. Once the initial flash had cleared, Bilbo blinked and blinked until no more tears impeded his vision, and saw that the _Arkenstone_ was now nothing but two jagged pieces – masts fallen, sails torn, drenched in fire.

 

Bilbo didn’t stop to think; Thorin had to be in the wreckage. He pushed out of Bofur’s now-lax grip, disregarding any appeals or warnings shouted at him as he again mounted the bulwark. This time no one was quick enough to stop Bilbo throwing himself into the water.

 

The _Arkenstone_ had been bearing down of Bard’s barge before it had burst into pieces, so Bilbo didn’t have to swim for long. It was easy enough to avoid the flotsam, whether burning or not, but Bilbo soon found his way blocked by fire _on_ the water. Here the flames were not only yellow and orange, but blue and white. Was this the Dwarves’ liquid fire?

 

With no other way to move forward, Bilbo dove beneath the fire and hoped that he would not boil in the process.

 

He could not help but be reminded of the night they’d been attacked by the _White Warg_. The water was littered with debris same as then, though there was a lot more of it now. Bilbo swerved out of the way of a cannon as it plunged downwards, dragging one of Smaug’s crew with it. Bilbo swam on.

 

Also as had happened _that_ night, Thorin had decided to take on their enemy single-handedly, proving his bravery and idiocy in one swoop, and ending up in the water for Bilbo to save.

 

At least, Bilbo hoped that the Dwarf had ended up in the water. And, oh, he hoped he would be able to save Thorin.

 

He _needed_ to save Thorin.

 

This was not the first time Bilbo had to swim through body-infested waters, but these were not Orcs. They seemed altogether more grotesque, impossibly so; somehow it was fitting that Smaug had a crew full of monsters. Most were dead or unconscious, some torn into pieces. The ones that were aware were too busy trying to reach the surface than to bother with a little Hobbit, though one or two tried to snag him and were clawed for their trouble.

 

Then Bilbo saw them.

 

Smaug wore his eel shape, body wrapped around Thorin’s arms and body. One of Thorin’s hand was at Smaug’s throat – just below his head, at any rate, keeping those bone white teeth away. His other hand held Bard’s axe/hammer, obviously pinched before he’d jumped into the water, but he could not swing it for Smaug’s grip.

 

From what Bilbo could see, neither was injured – considering they’d both been on a ship that had burst open and into flame – but while Smaug could breathe without trouble underwater, Thorin did not have this ability.

 

Bilbo darted in. Thorin saw him first. His jaw didn’t open in surprise but it was a near enough thing; instead he stopped struggling for a moment, allowing Smaug’s maw to loom close, jaw snapping within inches of Thorin’s face.

 

Gritting his teeth tightly together, Bilbo raised an arm and swiped at Smaug’s good eye. Blood seethed in the water, dark red blood, almost purple, and the eel thrashed wildly, pulling Thorin’s limbs this way and that. Bilbo clawed him again, intending to blind Smaug completely, intending to hurt him enough to free Thorin and allow the Dwarf to avenge his people.

 

This did not happen.

 

Smaug keened loudly. The sound pierced through Bilbo’s head and he slapped his hands over his ears, recoiling. Thorin did not seem as affected by this unholy shrieking, but through the bloody water Bilbo watched Smaug’s grasp tighten – then tighten again.

 

Bilbo didn’t know if he imagined the _snap_. His ears were still covered, after all. He could only watch, watch as Thorin’s eyes rolled up into his head, as his air was forced out of mouth and nose. His hands loosed their hold, letting go of Smaug and letting go of his makeshift weapon.

 

Sensing the sudden weakness of his enemy – because he could not see for himself – Smaug released Thorin. His head turned, mouth gaping open, darkness and death lying in wait. His pale eye lay against a bed of scars, the other crossed with scratches, but he somehow was staring straight at Bilbo.

 

Faced by this terror, Bilbo flit downwards as Smaug charged. The eel seemed confused for a moment, having expected to close his jaws over Bilbo’s soft flesh, then coiled his body in preparation for another strike. He was still, listening for any sounds and feeling the water’s swells – then swivelled his head downwards suddenly, mouth gaping and grinning at Bilbo.

 

Though Smaug could not see it, Bilbo grinned back. Then buried the sharp point of Bard’s adze in the eel’s thin skull.

 

It was over.

 

Bilbo wanted to laugh, to cry, but couldn’t. He went to Thorin, limp and unmoving in the water, grabbing his clothes to pull him close and this time did not hesitate. He put his mouth over Thorin’s, parting thin lips, and kissed life back into him. Bilbo did not stop to doubt his decision to do this underwater, did not stop to dwell on the possibility of Thorin being dead already. He had to do this. He had to try.

 

Thorin didn’t respond.

 

He didn’t respond and it was Bilbo’s fault – for not moving sooner, for not freeing him from Smaug grip, for letting him off the barge in the first place. Bilbo put his arms around Thorin and pressed his nose to Thorin’s neck; the key pressed between their chests, and Bilbo bitterly wished that he’d not met any non-Hobbits. Not Gandalf, not any of the Dwarvish crew, and definitely not Thorin. Then he wouldn’t have gone on this quest, wouldn’t have been in danger at all, wouldn’t have had to kill someone, and wouldn’t –

 

Wouldn’t have fallen –

 

Thorin’s arms suddenly rose around him, hands sliding up either side of Bilbo’s spine, one slower than the other. Bilbo withdrew immediately. Thorin was _alive_ , his eyes open and alert, expression unreadable. He looked beyond Bilbo, eyebrows raising at the sight of Smaug’s lifeless body, then pointed upwards as if idly suggesting they surface. As if they hadn’t almost died.

 

He helped Thorin – who was favouring one arm – and they surfaced amongst splintered wood and fire. There was blood on Thorin’s face and underneath Bilbo’s claws. They would have to return to the barge and give the crew the good news, but for now only the two of them existed.

 

Bilbo hit Thorin.

 

“You’re a complete fool!” He stuck a forefinger in Thorin’s face and Thorin stared bemusedly at it, eyes crossing. “Next time you decide to put yourself in danger, do it on land so I don’t have to come to your rescue!”

 

“Thank you,” Thorin said quietly, derailing Bilbo’s tirade. He gently pushed away the finger pointed at him, then settled his hand atop Bilbo’s bare shoulder. “If you weren’t there, I would have died, you’re right. But you were there. You killed Smaug.”

 

Bilbo dropped his gaze, looking at Thorin’s hand from the corner of his eye. He did not want to think about what he’d done. He did not want to be thanked for it.

 

“I owe you my life.”

 

“You’ve owed me that for some time, Thorin Oakenshield.” He snorted. “Many times over. I’m quite sure my contract didn’t detail rescuing you from Orcs or Elves or giant squid.”

 

“Or pirates-turned-eels,” Thorin suggested. He smiled at Bilbo’s glare, and Bilbo glared all the more if only to curb the instinct to kiss him.

 

“I expect to be recompensed,” he said, injecting as much snooty authority in his voice as he could. It did a good job of masking any longing that could accidentally slip out. Bilbo glanced away, hoping that Bard and the crew would arrive before he said something stupid. “And not in gold, either. I’ve no use for it.”

 

“What do you wish for?” Thorin carefully grasped Bilbo’s chin, meeting hazel eyes with blue. “I will do all in my power for you.”

 

And, really, it was the perfect opportunity. If he leaned forward and kissed Thorin now, he could blame it on the stress of all that had happened – or he could claim it as his ‘payment’. Thorin wouldn’t begrudge him such a tiny favour, surely; what he was asking for was not so different to the kisses of life they’d already shared. All he needed to do was ask.

 

“I…” Bilbo licked his lips. “Fish.”

 

Confusion flittered across Thorin’s face, leaving behind a small frown. “Fish?”

 

Blushing beneath his mottles, Bilbo nodded – once, twice. “Fish. Lots of fish. For me to eat.”

 

Thorin still looked at him strangely, as if he’d expected a different answer. “I see,” he said. The disappointment in his voice was clearly put there by Bilbo’s deceitful imagination. “Is there anything else?”

 

A shrill whistle broke the air; Balin took his fingers away from his mouth and waved. The barge was only a little distance away, kept behind by what looked like the top half of the _Arkenstone_ ’s mainmast. All they had to do was swim to it.

 

Bilbo pulled his chin free from Thorin’s grasp and touched the chain resting against his skin. He kept his voice quiet, just for the Captain to hear, “I think I’d like to go home."


	14. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5 months later...

The Dwarves had insisted that Bilbo keep some of the treasure, though Hobbit had no use for gold or jewels. They would be useless for bartering under the sea, but Bilbo had a place for the little chest in his special room at home. Also to add to his collection were a small dagger, a box of matches (that he’d be unable to use), and a needle with some thread, all gifts from his friends.

 

Bofur helped him with the bag that held his gifts; it was like his old sling bag that had been lost with _Deathless_ , but made from the same canvas as sails. It was a little heavy, but doubtless would last him many trips to shipwrecks.

 

“I will miss you, Hobbit,” Bofur said, clapping his hands on Bilbo’s shoulders, customary smile dimpling his cheeks. “It’s really too bad you can’t read or write, else we could exchange letters.”

 

“I’m sure Gandalf could carry messages,” Bilbo said. He reconsidered. “If he was in the mood.”

 

The Wizard had stopped by Erebor not long after Smaug had been, er, vanquished. He’d been injured from his ‘business’ – the details of which he was careful not to reveal to anyone, despite extensive questioning – but happy and proud that all of the crew had survived. He had followed them on their way back to the waters of the Shire, but had chosen to stop in Rivendell.

 

“P’raps we’ll just swing by,” Bofur offered. “It’ll take awhile, packing up the Blue Mountains. Just look out for our ensign,” he said, pointing at the pennant of what was called ‘Durin blue’. “And we’ll keep an eye out for you.”

 

Bilbo smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “For everything.”

 

“Aye, and thank you for being a good friend,” the Dwarf said, “for a fish.”

 

Bilbo let his smile grow enough to show off his fangs, but Bofur only laughed and clapped his shoulder again.

 

“And maybe you could bring your cousin along, the wee cutie.”

 

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Bilbo said, careful not to promise. Primula would have grown in all the time he’d been away – she probably had two (or more) younger siblings by now. He was looking forward to visiting his Aunt and Uncle.

 

The other Dwarves had already said their goodbyes to Bilbo – Fíli and Kíli squashing him between them, Dwalin lifting him clear off the deck, Ori showing him a well-done drawing, Bombur passing him an extra honeycake – all the Dwarves but one.

 

Thorin smiled more easily now than he had during the quest, though he tended to keep them for family and close friends. He had one for Bilbo now, the barest curve to his lips, and somehow sad.

 

“Shall we?”

 

Bilbo nodded. The jollyboat was ready to be lowered; looking at it, he felt a pang. It was very likely that it would be the last time he’d be allowed on board a serviceable ship, that – despite Bofur’s reassurances – this would be the last time he’d see any of these Dwarves. They had no reason to visit him, after all. No reason at all.

 

Balin intercepted Bilbo before he could go to Thorin’s side. His kindly face was serious, and he leaned down, pushing folded parchment into Bilbo’s hands.

 

“I thought you’d like the contract you signed,” Balin said. “As a souvenir of the only time you wrote.”

 

Bilbo grasp the contract tightly, careful not to crinkle the corners or pierce the parchment with his claws. “Thank you, Balin.”

 

To his surprise, instead of a smile or a slap on the back, Balin drew him into a hug. Also surprising was the softness of Balin’s large beard, pressed between their bodies. Then Balin spoke, whispering in one pointed ear, “Tell him. Tell him before it’s too late.”

 

Bilbo frowned as they separated, but somehow did not need to ask anything. He knew who Balin was talking about. He knew what he needed to say.

 

He just… didn’t know if he should say it.

 

Thorin helped him onto the longboat, and as the Captain negotiated the lines to lower it, Bilbo waved at the crew and they waved back (at least two of them discreetly wiping away tears).

 

“Shall I leave you by the shore?”

 

“Yes that… would be best.” And fitting as well; he’d first met Thorin and the other Dwarves here at Bywater. Now he would be leaving them. “You don’t have to go up to the beach, I can handle a little water.”

 

Thorin merely inclined his head and started drawing the oars through the water. Bilbo looked up at the new ship, the _Black Arrow_ , and wondered why none of the crew was standing by the bulwark to see him off. He was startled when Thorin touched his hand; he hadn’t noticed that they had stopped.

 

The sun shone down on them as Bilbo slipped into the warm water; it would be safer for both of them if he stayed away from Thorin. If the Captain tried to hug him like Balin had, or even if he didn’t, Bilbo didn’t know if he’d be able to stop from throwing himself at Thorin and kissing him.

 

But when Thorin gazed down at him like that, with pale, pale eyes and a soft expression, Bilbo felt like throwing caution to the tide and damning their friendship – all for one kiss, one chaste press of one mouth to another.

 

Thorin cleared his throat, chasing away Bilbo’s ridiculous urges. “I know you’ve already received gifts from most everyone but I would like you to keep this.” Resting on Thorin’s palm was his key, still strung on its chain. “If you want it.”

 

“If – if it is freely given, then I’ll gladly accept.” And why wouldn’t he want to accept? Selfish as it sounded, it would be something of Thorin’s that he could keep with him forever; a physical token he could touch even when every last memory had been stolen from his mind. Of course he would accept.

 

Thorin slipped the chain over Bilbo’s head, as he had in Erebor. His fingers lingered, perhaps accidentally, and Balin’s words came to Bilbo.

 

 _Tell him_.

 

This was possibly the last time he’d ever see Thorin. Was it really so terrible to let his friend know the extent of his feelings? He had had Thorin’s friendship for a good while, now – for long enough to satisfy him, surely. Even if things ended badly today, he would still have the memories.

 

He would still feel the same.

 

“Thorin, I love you.” He swallowed, gripping the side of the little boat tightly. “And I have asked; that means the same for your people as it does for mine. More than that, I know it deep in my heart, I love you.”

 

The Dwarf said nothing for a long time. Bilbo felt his hope dwindle and he kept his gaze downwards, watching the seawater lap gently against the wood. He startled when rough fingers slowly, tremblingly traced the uneven colour of his cheeks.

 

“I love you as well. I do.”

 

Then why didn’t he look as happy as Bilbo felt? Was there something wrong? Someone else?

 

“Bilbo, I can’t… we can’t be… together.”

 

“Whyever not?”

 

Thorin laughed, and while Bilbo’s heart might usually have lifted at hearing it, the sound was laced with sadness enough to taste. “We come from different worlds, you and I.” When Bilbo did no more than to stare uncomprehendingly, Thorin clicked his tongue in annoyance. “You live in the sea and I – I live above it. On land. We cannot do this. That’s all.”

 

What a load of nonsense! “That isn’t all! Why should our places of birth matter?”

 

“Because I can’t be with you!” Thorin’s tone was harsh, but quiet. “If I was a Hobbit, or if you were a Dwarf – if things were different then perhaps I could wake up beside you, or hold you close, or – or just be with you.”

 

Bilbo curled his fingers over the hand on his face. “Thorin… I still love you, even if we aren’t able to do all that. We may not be able to live together, but I can visit you, and you can visit me.”

 

“How could that be enough when you deserve the world?”

 

Heart feeling like it would burst, Bilbo smiled up at the Dwarf, who was ever ridiculous. “I know that we return each other’s feelings. I love you, Thorin Oakenshield, and you love me. That’s enough – more than enough.”

 

“I…” Thorin put his other palm over Bilbo’s right cheek, leaning down carefully so the boat didn’t tip over. He rested their foreheads together. “I should quite like to kiss you now.”

 

Bilbo’s smile grew. “How lucky that means the same thing in both our worlds.” He loosed his grip on the boat and curled his fingers into the salt-stiff material of Thorin’s tunic. Their noses brushed together. He watched Thorin’s eyelids flutter closed and then Bilbo –

 

Pulled.

 

Thorin fell into the water with a big splash; Bilbo laughed when he surfaced, spluttering. He suddenly felt that all the weight had been lifted from his shoulders; though he and Thorin had wasted months thanks to doubt and second-guessing, now everything was out in the open. Now Bilbo knew Thorin loved him, just as he loved Thorin.

 

Bilbo let himself be pulled forward through the water, thinking of previous circumstances that had them in a similar position. Now, though, he was free to twine his arms around Thorin’s neck, as Thorin’s hands cupped his face.

 

“Mind the teeth,” Bilbo said wickedly, and Thorin only laughed and kissed him.

 

 

END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case you missed them!
> 
>  **Art links:** [[pandamani](http://pandamani.tumblr.com/post/87029342769/the-final-fic-i-drew-for-for-the-hobbit-big-bang)] [[bofurthurmore](http://adambrown.co.vu/post/87013633016/for-thorin-senpais-big-bang-entry-keep-your)] [[thejerseydevile](http://thejerseydeviledoodleblog.tumblr.com/post/87303024123/hobbits-were-curious-creatures-perhaps-this-was)]


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